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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508178">Slick as Hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash2411/pseuds/Ash2411'>Ash2411</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash2411/pseuds/Ash2411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham recovers from his last encounter with Hannibal with the help of a new acquaintance - FBI trainee, Clarice Starling.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Clarice Starling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place post season three. In this universe, Clarice Starling is very much alive. Rated M for future content.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s more than a few days before Will sees anything but the darkness. When he does finally open his eyes, it’s not what he fears. Instead, a slightly blurry, unfamiliar furry face is looking at him over the edge of the bed he’s laying on. He blinks a few times until his vision clears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he croaks, weakly lifting his fingers up to brush the dog’s nose. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey...he lives.” A voice says from his left. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does he?” Will rasps. His entire body feels like it’s been shattered and placed back together haphazardly. He’s not entirely sure that it hasn’t.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He does,” a woman says. She walks into his line of vision, light shining behind her from the brightly lit hallway outside his room. She looks like a fallen angel, devoid of wings. “Let me get your nurse.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where am I?” Will asks before she can leave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in a secure hospital near Quantico,” the woman answers. “You’ve been out a very long time. Your family will be really pleased to hear that you’re awake, Mr. Graham.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Will asks, regretting how rude he sounds. She, however, appears unruffled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My name is Clarice. Oh, and this is my dog, Saint,” she says, ruffling the fur between the dog’s ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice reaches over Will’s head and presses the button to call the nurse. Will’s mind feels foggy. He has a million questions, but he can’t seem to formulate the sentences to ask them. He takes note of the soft and almost undetectable southern accent in Clarice’s voice; clearly she’s worked hard to cover up her West Virginian drawl.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice steps out as the nurse comes in. Once Will’s vitals have all been checked, she returns with Saint at her heels. He trots over like he’s known Will all his life, and curls up beside the bed. Despite the confusion, it’s nice to have a dog by his side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you work for the hospital?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not exactly.” Clarice answers, settling into the armchair by his bed. “I work for the FBI. But, before I joined up, I used to take therapy dogs around to hospitals. I’ve known Jack a long time. He trusts me and he thought, considering you like dogs, Saint and I might be able to help soothe you, considering everything you’ve been through. Plus, Doctor Bloom thought it might help your recovery if I read to you. So, we’ve been doing some of that too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it I need soothing for, exactly?” Will grouses. His brain feels like it’s been wrung out over a sink, so he decides not to try and figure out how it is that she knows Jack yet - or why Jack thinks it’s his place to assign a babysitter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You had a fall, to put it lightly. You were found on the Atlantic coastline looking worse for wear and you’ve been floating in and out of consciousness for almost 2 weeks now - you suffered a lot of trauma to your entire body,” Clarice explains. Then, gently, “Do you remember anything?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will closes his eyes, trying to focus, but thoughts seem to fly past him like snowflakes in the wind. “I remember...pain. I was at a house...on a cliff.” The cloudiness irritates him; his brain feels like a tool that’s been forgotten outside in the rain too many times, rusty and difficult to use.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Clarice cautions. “Your doctor doesn’t want you to press your mind too much for details. Just let them come.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I have to remember?” Will asks, half raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Mr. Graham,” Clarice responds. “Your family will be here soon. In the meantime, would you like for me to continue reading to you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m afraid you’ll have to start over,” Will mumbles, tiredly. “I don’t think I remember much from when I was asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d be surprised at what your mind picks up while you’re asleep, Mr. Graham.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clarice?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You can call me Will.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay then, Will,” She responds with a grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then she cracks open her book and begins to read aloud. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Slowly Will’s mind recovers. He remembers things in fragments, trying to piece everything together like a puzzle. Jack and Alana try to fill in the gaps with what they’ve gleaned.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you find Hannibal?” Will asks, not meeting anyone’s eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alana and Jack look at each other before looking at Will. He feels like a child whose parents are trying to decide how to deliver their divorce news. Or like his dad when he was trying to explain to Will what exactly had happened to his mom. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Jack finally says. “We’ve searched everywhere in the area where you were found. We checked the house where you were taken. There was nothing. Save Dolarhyde’s mutilated body. What happened out there, Will? We had a plan.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will sighs and leans back against his pillows, a familiar dread spreading like disease under his skin. He decides to ignore that last question. “You knew we were taking a risk, Jack. You agreed to it,” he pauses, then adds, “You’re not going to find him.” Feelings of guilt, relief, anger, and disappointment swirl around in his head, making him dizzy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will, we don’t even know if he’s alive,” Alana says, but Will can tell that she sees the naivety behind her own words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Alana. We both know what Hannibal is capable of.” Will’s eyes swivel from a fixed point on the wall to her face. “He’s got too many promises left to fulfill to die now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was your intent though, correct?” Jack asks. His tone suggests that there is only one right answer to the question. “You went over a cliff to try and kill him?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why else would I throw myself over a cliff, Jack?” Will replies, avoiding his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe because you thought you’d rather die than live with everything you’ve done since meeting Hannibal?” Alana suggests, moving closer to Will’s bed. Then quietly, “Or maybe you just couldn’t stand the thought of living alone in your mind without him picking around inside of it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A cold silence sits between them until Jack breaks the tension. “Well, there’s no sense in getting into all of this right now. You need to heal up first and then, as soon as you’re given the all clear, we’ll take this to the Bureau and go from there.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Will says, quietly. Jack, already turned towards the door, stops in his tracks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” He asks, turning his head a fraction of an inch towards Will. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I said, ‘no,’” Will asserts more firmly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack fully turns around to look at Will. His eyes narrow dangerously. Will is treading on thin ice, the trout beneath the surface peering at him with curious eyes as the ice begins to crack. “No?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m finished. I don’t want to do this anymore. I came back to help you find Dolarhyde. I did that and more.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to do more.” Jack says, clenching his jaw. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to, Jack.We both knew what would happen if I came back. I came when you asked me to. Now I’m asking you to let me go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re too valuable to the Bureau. We’ve had this conversation before Will,” Jack argues.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Damnit, Jack you have a whole academy full of trainees and prospective Special Agents. You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>trained </span>
  </em>
  <span>agents at your disposal, agents that went through the all the same tests that I did and actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>passed</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Will snaps. “I’m not fine china in your kitchen cabinet that you can just pull out on special occasions. What I do isn’t special. It’s just different.” Will sags against the pillows again, his body aching right along with his heart. “And the longer I do it, the harder it is to separate who I am and what I do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack blinks and looks at the floor. “Well, Will if that’s how you feel, then leave a letter of resignation on my desk when you’re well.” Then he turns on his heel and walks out the glass door. It swings shut with a final thud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if your intention was to get Jack all riled up, you’ve done it,” Alana says. Will doesn’t answer, more interested in the fraying threads of his bedsheets than the evaluating look in Alana’s eyes. “Listen, I respect your decision to step away. I think it’s the best thing you can possibly do for yourself right now, but try and remember, Jack </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>care about you, even when he doesn’t show it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Will utters into the quiet of the room, laying his head back against his pillows. He stares at the white ceiling, counting the square panels to distract himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe we’ve all just experienced too much to be friendly in the same way we were in the beginning,” Alana observes. “But, you’ll never be rid of us entirely, Will. We’re all held together by the same trauma.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will works his jaw, fighting the great swell of emotion in his chest. Alana leans forward and presses her lips to Will’s forehead and his eyes fall shut. After one last look, Alana turns and follows in Jack’s footsteps, leaving Will to a great, heaping, pile of guilt. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Molly and Walter finally visit the next day, but it isn’t a joyful reunion. Will didn’t expect one, not after everything that their little family went through in such a short amount of time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Molly leans down and kisses Will’s stubbled cheek. “I’m glad to see you awake.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to see you at all,” Will says, searching her face. So many things have happened since he last saw her. So much has already changed. The lines around her mouth are deeper and the circles beneath her eyes are darker. There’s a tightness to her lips that normally isn’t there. He feels a deep ache of longing for their life before the past month happened. He sometimes aches for his old life in Wolf Trap too, alone in the middle of nowhere with only his dogs for company. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walter hangs back by the door, avoiding Will’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “Walter’s glad you’re okay, too,” Molly says. “He’s just...overwhelmed, I think. A lot has happened and it’s just, well, I think it’s been really difficult to process.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will nods, unsure of what to say. He wishes Walter wouldn’t stand so far away. It makes him feel like he’s contagious, spreading madness like disease. He was a surrogate father to Wally, but he can feel the resentment inside the boy like he’s taken up residence inside him. He will never see Will like a father again, only a dangerous creature made of darkness whose mere existence threatens the life of everyone around him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I go to the vending machine?” Walter asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Molly gives him a handful of dollar bills and he disappears down the hallway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s scared of me,” Will says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No…” Molly says, trying for airiness, but falling a few miles short. “He’s just…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” Will says, even though it isn’t. “He found something out about my past that scares him. And I’m sure he’s heard more from his friends since then. You’re all he’s had since his father died. He’s right to feel angry at me. He’s right to want to protect you. And both of us know he’s right to be scared.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They sit in an uncomfortable silence until Molly finally speaks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will, I love you,” Molly says, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye. “The last two years with you have been a gift.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Molly.” Will replies, gently. He tries to keep the dread and pain from his voice. “You can say it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She hides her face in her hands and cries. A lump hardens in Will’s throat. He’d known this was coming. Even as they agreed to go home together, while she lay in a hospital bed much like his own, he knew this time would come. He reaches out and takes one of her hands in his own. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to keep Wally safe,” Molly cries, “he’s my son.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t expect any less of you.” Will says, squeezing her hand.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I have to be the one that holds it together</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself, but tears threaten to overflow anyway. “I love you. And Wally. You gave me a life I never thought I could have. It was short, but it was special.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I always thought you and I would grow old together, sitting on that old porch.” Molly sniffles, wiping at her face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can still sit on the porch with you, whenever you want.” Will offers her a small, sad smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to sell the house,” Molly says. This knowledge hits Will with great force, knocking the air from his lungs. “It’s not safe for us there, Will. Not anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It might sour this place for you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she’d said when he had wanted to stay away from Jack Crawford and his muddled world of darkness and death. And Hannibal, always Hannibal. She hadn’t considered that his </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>might sour the place for her and Wally. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I never meant to bring all of this to your doorstep. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you and Wally safe.” Will says, voice shaking slightly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Molly rises from her chair and kisses him tenderly on the cheek, next to his lips, but not on them. His heart somehow sinks even lower. “I’m going to leave some papers for you on the side table about the house and some other stuff. I want you to look through them. If there’s anything you see that you take issue with-“ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Other than our impending separation?” Will asks, softly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Molly smiles at him sadly. “I’ll always love you, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She says the words, but he knows they’re not true anymore. In dancing around the question, she’s given her answer. Molly will meet someone else. Beautiful, kind, funny, adventurous Molly. She’ll explain the scar on the right side of her chest. Maybe she won’t even mention Will’s name when she tells the story. Wally will play baseball with a faceless stranger and Molly will slowly forget she loved him as she passes her bright and endless love onto someone else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll make sure Winston and the others get back to you safely.” Molly says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. A small consolation amidst the rubble of his broken marriage. “Everything is going to be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will doesn’t know who she’s trying to reassure more, him or herself.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Will feels himself falling, feels the air rushing past him, buffeting him around. He’s freezing, the blood soaked clothing on his back only intensifying the sensation. He struggles to free himself from the grasp of the inky black wendigo clawing at his flesh.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“We are two sides of the same coin, Will. You’ll never be free from what’s always been a part of you.” Hannibal’s voice whispers in his ears.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The dark churning waters of the Atlantic rise up to meet them and -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s whole body jolts and his skin is so sweat soaked, he feels as though he really did hit the water. He rubs his face, desperately missing the company of his many dogs and Molly’s warm body next to his. He painfully sits up, stiff and sore. Everything seems to crash down on him at once and he begins to cry, but there is no one around to hear him. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>Recovery is grueling, but Will reminds himself repeatedly that he’s endured worse. His left arm is bound in a cast and his damaged rotator cuff on the right side hurts worse than ever. It’s his legs and back that really concern him though. For weeks, he has to walk with a walker, hunched over like a withering old man, the nurses holding tightly to his arms. Each night after his walk, exhaustion overtakes him. On the nights when Clarice comes to read to him with Saint, he falls asleep before she can even finish the first few pages of the chapter.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>When he finally stands up on his own for the first time he nearly falls, but Clarice’s steady hands are quick and she wraps an arm around his middle and uses her free hand to grasp his.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we taking a walk or about to waltz?” Will jokes, half heartedly. His small smile feels strange on his face and the stitches in his cheek pull. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No offense, but I don’t think you’re quite waltzing material just yet,” Clarice says, smiling a little. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She leads him to the bathroom and he’s happy to be making the journey on two legs rather than six. When he gets there she leaves him to change out of his hospital gown and into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She helps him into his coat and takes his arm, grounding him. Saint follows diligently, looking up at Will with a lopsided grin and his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’d you adopt him from?” Will asks as they walk down the hall and out into the sunshine. The air is brisk still, but it isn’t snowing anymore. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He was actually given to me by a friend. The runt of the litter,” Clarice responds. “I’m a sucker when it comes to the underdogs.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will appraises Saint’s size with his eyebrows raised and then looks at Clarice. “Not much of a runt anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, things grow. So do people,” Clarice says, her eyes taking on the unfocused expression of someone lost in the past.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You never told me how you ended up being my glorified babysitter,” Will remarks, bringing her back to the present. His back starts to hurt and he pauses to rest. Clarice makes no move to disconnect their looped arms and neither does he. She’s warm and oddly comforting. He almost allows himself to see into her, but like a wounded animal, he retreats from the idea and pulls back. It’s his enhanced ability to empathize that landed him here in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you,” Clarice reminds him. “Jack and Alana asked me to. Are the details important?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will huffs, sending a cloud of dense breath into the air around them. “They’re important to me. I’d like to know more about you. The last time I trusted someone I didn’t know very well, they ended up having me framed for murder. Among other things.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you referring to Hannibal Lecter?” Clarice asks, as they continue walking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk about Dr. Lecter.” Will grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice stops walking this time. “You don’t have to talk about him, Will. I only asked because you mentioned him. You don’t owe me any kind of explanation. If you want to take Dr. Lecter out of the conversation and leave him there, then we’ll do that.” Anyone else saying it would’ve sounded accusing, but instead she only sounds understanding and kind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we talk about you instead?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice watches Saint stalk a squirrel. “Alright then. What do you want to know?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you know Jack and Alana?” He asks immediately. “I’ve never heard them mention you before.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, Jack is an old friend...he knew my father before he passed. Alana used to be my therapist, before well, before what happened a few years ago.” Will senses she’s withholding information, but doesn’t press her for it, yet. He recognizes the kindness in her not mentioning Hannibal’s name again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You said you work for the FBI?” Will prompts. “I’ve never seen you around though.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know every agent in the field?” Clarice asks in return. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know enough to know you’re not one of them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, you caught me in a tiny fib that I hope you’ll forgive me for. I don’t technically work for the FBI. I’m a recent graduate of the FBI Academy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A trainee?” Will asks, surprised. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Agent in training, thank you.” Clarice jokes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you trying to join the BSU?” Will digs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just say I’m exploring my options for now. Like, I said, Jack’s an old family friend. He’s allowing me some extra time to lay out my options for employment. In the meantime, he thought I could be helpful on your end.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will nods his head in thought. “You know Jack just stuck you here with me to be his spy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Spy is a bit strong of a word, but yes, I am aware that it’s his intent for me to keep him updated on your condition.” She doesn’t seem bothered by his exposing her in the slightest. “I also told him I wasn’t going to lie for him if you asked me about it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow.” Will says, impressed with her taking a stand against Crawford. “Surprised you’re around to babysit me after that.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jack doesn’t scare me,” she says, then adds, “and neither do you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s only because you don’t know me.” Will watches the squirrel resurface and Saint chase after it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, if you’d rather not have me lurking around, I get it,” Clarice says. “You’re a grown man. You don’t need me or Jack to look out for you, but I don’t mind doing it. You’re decent company when you’re awake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will looks at her, appraising her expression and body language. Her words are genuine and a refreshing contrast to conversations he’s had in the past. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, stick around,” Will finally says. “I need to know what happens at the end of that book.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They continue the rest of their walk in a comfortable silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will’s release from the hospital is almost upon him. He finds himself on the front steps of his old house feeling more than a little nervous about returning to the world. But, why is Clarice still the first thought in his head? What does his release mean for them? Will he continue seeing her? </p>
<p>I’m bad at summaries, y’all.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Time seems to pass like the ebb and flow of the tides - achingly slow and then impossibly fast. Will quickly tires of the hospital room he’s confined to, but Clarice’s evening visits make the nights brighter and less filled with shadows. Sometimes he awakens to what sounds like a stag huffing out a breath into the night air, but when he opens his eyes there’s nothing to see. His dreams are violent and vivid, but luckily, they fade from memory throughout the day as the plot of Clarice’s books fill his head. This week they’re working their way through </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Picture of Dorian Gray</span>
  </em>
  <span>. As Clarice reads aloud his mind begins to wander. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How convenient it would be, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>to purge the ugliest parts of ourselves onto paper. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His mind follows that trail of thought until it edges on something dangerous and Will yanks his thoughts away like a hand on a hot stove. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will startles and looks up at Clarice. He’s clearly missed something. “Sorry, what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What were you thinking about? You were miles away,” Clarice says, her eyes scanning his features. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to smooth his face into what looks like a serene expression. He can tell by the look on Clarice’s face that he’s fallen short. “Um, just thinking about Dorian Gray.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about him?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will considers a moment before he answers, weighing the risk in sharing his thoughts. “I was thinking about how nice it would be if I could take all the ugly things I’ve been and done and put them on paper.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice closes her book and ponders his words. “Putting them in the painting doesn’t make them go away though. The painting is only a reflection of what lies in the heart. Dorian’s heart is black, therefore the painting is a ghastly self portrait. Hiding behind a pretty face doesn’t change who he is.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thoughts of Hannibal’s fine suits, ornate dinner spreads, and rare literature come to Will’s mind unbidden. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How grotesque would his portrait look?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I think I’ve had enough Dorian Gray for tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I say something wrong?” Clarice’s eyebrows knit together in concern. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no no,” Will rushes to make her understand that the tension he suddenly feels isn’t her fault. “I’m just feeling a little disoriented tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Want me to get a nurse?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“God, no. I’ve felt this way since before I fell off of a cliff. I think it’s becoming my permanent state of being.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you’re just getting old,” Clarice retorts, trying to hide a smile behind her long and slender fingers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Old? I’m barely older than you!” Will exclaims. “How old are you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A lady never tells her age, Will” - Clarice feigns shock - “and a gentleman never asks.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve ever been described as a ‘gentleman.’ Not when you do what I do - did.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you miss it?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will releases a great sigh. “I can’t miss what’s still here. I can’t stop seeing. I can stop actively </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I can’t stop...seeing. And I can stop doing the kind of work that forces me too.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s it like?” Clarice asks, slipping off her shoes and folding her feet underneath her. She rests her cheek on her hand. “Having an empathy disorder, I mean. If you don’t mind my asking.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the last part that makes Will decide to answer. “It’s hard to explain.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks, trying to put it into words, deciding to tell her the same thing he told Abigail all those years ago. “It’s like I’m talking to someone’s shadow suspended on dust. The imprint of a person and the things they do is left behind wherever they go. Their actions, the way they live their lives, leaves a sort of impression in the air. If I think about them, I can imagine myself living their lives. It feels like every emotion that passes through them is passing through me. Sometimes, in a room full of people, I feel like an antenna for emotions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> passes through me. Other times, things don’t pass at all. They stick.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds like a hell of a lot to try and live with.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes I don’t don’t know what’s me and what isn’t. I can’t tell if I’m good or bad or something in between.” Will’s face heats up. He didn’t mean to say those words to Clarice, but they decided to fall from his lips anyways. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what I see?” Clarice asks. She leans forward in her chair and looks at Will, waiting for him to meet her eyes. When he does she continues, “I see a survivor. I see a very self aware and compassionate human being. I’ve watched you over the last two months and I haven’t seen anything to suggest that you’re a bad person with a bad heart. I’ve gotten pretty good at sniffing bad people out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know what I did before I got here. You don’t know what it’s like in my head, Clarice. Don’t try and analyze me like a problem in your textbook. Please,” Will says, looking away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean-” Clarice starts, sitting back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what you meant. You wanted to make me feel better, but I know what I am and what I’ve done. I have no illusions about the sort of person I am.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice blinks and looks down at her hands. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. Maybe I should give you some space.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will deflates watching her pick at the skin around her nails. “No - I’m - Please don’t leave. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I was out of line and you were just trying to help. I'm a little sensitive to being psychoanalyzed these days. Well, even more than usual, I guess.” He huffs out a little laugh and stares down at Saint, curled up at his feet on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He changes the subject, but the energy in the room has shifted and he isn’t sure how to shift it back. “So, what’re you going to do once you’re relieved of your duties here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet,” Clarice answers. “I haven’t put much thought to it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sure Jack will find a use for you,” Will says, wryly. “He’s good at that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s phone buzzes from her pocket and she pulls it out to read the message that flashes across the screen. Will takes the time to really look at her while her attention is elsewhere. Her skin is pale, reflecting the bright blue from the light of her phone. Her glossy hair falls over her shoulders in auburn waves, all but a small white streak that runs through the front of her hair. Vibrant blue eyes sit beneath her slightly unkempt eyebrows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She’s very pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, immediately trying to shake it off. He hasn’t thought about another woman since marrying Molly. He hasn’t thought of another woman since signing the divorce papers either. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will quickly looks away and scratches the back of his neck when she raises her eyes to look at him. “Were you just staring at me?” Clarice asks, trying not to grin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-no. I just - I’ve never asked. What happened to your hair? Or did you style it that way? It’s - I…” Will trails off while Clarice watches him fumble over his own words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>JUST SHUT UP, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he yells in his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean the white in my hair?” Clarice asks. It’s clear that she’s enjoying this deviation from his usual calm and measured way of speaking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will swallows and tries again. “Is it poliosis? I knew a kid in high school that had a white streak behind his ear.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Marie Antoinette syndrome,” Clarice tells him. She self consciously tucks the streak of white behind her ear. “It appeared when I was a teenager.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your hair turned white from fright?” Will asks, watching her closely. He can tell she isn’t being facetious and matches her serious expression. He’s unintentionally touched a nerve. Clarice shrugs and smiles in answer. “It’s beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s cheeks turn red underneath his gaze. “Thank you for saying that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She begins to pack away her things and get Saint’s leash out of her bag. “I should be getting home. Saint here is licking his chops and I’m afraid if I don’t get him out of here, your legs are going to turn into dinner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will laughs then winces, the muscles in his cheek still recovering. “Bye, Clarice.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He watches her walk to the door, trying not to pay attention to the fullness of her body or the way her hips sway. Just as she’s walking through the door, she turns to look back at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m 27, by the way.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It strikes Will after she’s gone that the words had the same ring as </span>
  <em>
    <span>old enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sweat gathers beneath his arms and in the small of his back when he comes to the realization. He kicks back the covers and tells himself not to read too much into it. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <em>
    <span>Will dreams of something other than his past for once. He dreams of Clarice. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re a good man, Will,” she whispers in his ear. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He closes his eyes, reveling in their closeness. He can smell the mint in her shampoo and the rich fragrance of her perfume. His hands find her arms, fingers trailing upwards, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then her mouth is on his and his heart is pounding and he’s drowning in the feeling of her skin against his- it’s too much. It’s all too much- he can’t- he-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She falls away from him, clutching her throat. Blood pours fro.m her neck and mouth. “W-Will…” she chokes. The blood spurts onto his chest and face. Blood is in his mouth, running down his skin. He drops to his knees and moves to cover the deep slash in her throat and that’s when he notices the knife in his hand. He looks from the knife to Clarice’s dimming blue eyes and sees terror there. As her life fades, her hair begins to turn color. White bleeds into the auburn halo around her head. He can’t stand the look of horror in her eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Of course you did,” a voice says from behind him. “This is who you are. And this is what she will be. We all hold a position in the food chain, Will.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He claps his hands over his ears but he can’t drown out the gurgling coming from Clarice’s body on the ground. He can still feel the vibrations against the floor as hooves beat against the ground behind him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will gasps as he shoots upwards in bed. In a panic, he swings his legs over the side and crashes to the floor. He tries to get up but his shaking legs and weakened back won’t support him. The floor is ice cold beneath his palms and, over the course of a few minutes, the sensation helps to ground him. He looks up at the white walls and the clock ticking above the door. When he finally catches his breath he uses the bed to claw his way to an upright position, then stumbles haphazardly to the bathroom where he turns the shower to cold and sheds his sweaty clothes. He’s shaking as he holds himself up against the shower wall, the water pounding against his back. His curls cling to his forehead and neck and he runs one of his hands over his face. When he opens his eyes, it’s to watch the water continuously swirl down the drain. Time loses meaning in his fatigued state and he doesn’t bother to check the clock as he pulls on clean sweats and a t-shirt. <br/></span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>With only a few days left in the hospital, it’s time to remove the bandages from his cheek. The reconstructive surgery, although successful in mending his jaw and cheek, took longer than expected to heal. Clarice shows up a few minutes before the doctor is expected to come in and cut the stitches and evaluate his marred face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles when she comes in the door, watching him doze against his pillows. For a moment, she leans against the doorframe just to take him in. Despite setting invisible boundaries in place to keep him at arm’s length, she’s found that it’s incredibly easy to develop a crush on Will Graham. His soft brown curls fall over his brow covering the thin scar that extends over his forehead. His long eyelashes graze his cheekbones and his soft looking lips are slack with sleep. She finds herself wanting to kiss them more often than she’d like to admit to herself. The muscles in Will’s biceps move as he shifts in his sleep and she follows the strong shape of his arm down to his hands. One rests on his stomach, over the extensive scar she knows lies beneath, the other grips the blanket lightly. His fingers are long and almost slope upwards towards the tips. She watches the motion of his chest rising and falling with his breath for just a few seconds more before she finally goes to her chair beside his bed and sits down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He must have been sleeping lightly because he cracks one of his eyes open to look at her. “Were you staring at me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice shakes her head at him, fighting a guilty grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep or something?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Much to Clarice’s relief, the doctor comes in before Will can embarrass her further. He removes the bandages from Will’s face to reveal fresh pink skin held together with stitches. The line follows the curve of his cheekbone, starting at his ear and ending in the hollow of his cheek. Will closes his eyes as the stitches are clipped and tugged from his skin. He doesn’t flinch - he’s endured far worse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When the doctor hands him a mirror he braces himself before looking. It’s been awhile since he’s taken a good look at himself and his appearance is startling. The raised scar stands out against his pale skin and his hair has gotten long enough to begin curling outwards from his neck - in other words, too long for his liking. Unable to shave, he’s grown a decent beard, the hair on the right side of his face flattened slightly from the large bandage. The only thing that remains the same are the blue eyes, dotted with brown around the pupil. He feels old and wasted.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Could you smile for me?” The doctor asks. “I need to be sure the muscles are fully functioning.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will raises an eyebrow as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re kidding right? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But the doctor only waits so he complies, pulling the corners of his mouth up into a grimace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t strain yourself, there,” Clarice jokes. It achieves the desired effect, causing Will’s grimace to turn into a genuine smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When the doctor is gone, Will looks to Clarice. “Be honest, how bad is it really?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you look ruggedly handsome, Will,” Clarice says softly, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will laughs. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your release is on Friday. Do you have everything in order?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m working on it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you have a plan? A place to stay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a place in Wolf Trap.” Will sighs. “I lived there before...before everything happened. I never sold it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice frowns. “Is that…?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Will asks. “Habitable? I left all the furnishings there when Molly and I moved in together-“ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Clarice interrupts, “I was going to ask if that would be good for your mental health, considering everything you went through while living there.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will tenses up. He thinks about Randall Tier and Margot Verger, of Alana Bloom’s lips and losing his mind. He thinks of Hannibal Lecter, sitting there in his living room, as bold as brass. So many memories lie hidden in those walls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine,” Will answers, stiffly. “You can tell Jack that too when you report to him.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice decides to ignore his implication that she’s only there to do Jack’s bidding. “As long as you’re okay with it, that’s all that really matters.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think we’ll be able to finish our book before I’m set free?” Will asks. He’ll miss the sound of her voice and her matter-of-fact way of speaking. Truthfully, he’ll miss a lot about her…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“At the rate we’ve been going, probably not.” Clarice shrugs. “You can borrow the book though. Maybe we can get together after you finish it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that disappointment in her voice?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will’s heart rate rises as he works up the courage to say his next words. “I’ve got a better idea, Clarice. How would you feel about coming to my place and continuing the story? Whenever you’d like, no pressure.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d like that very much, Will.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will hopes Clarice will be the one to retrieve him on Friday, so he’s disappointed to see Jack Crawford’s tall form come through the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Brought you some clothes.” Jack says, tossing a bag onto the bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Will says, not meeting his eyes. “Clarice give you a full report on my recovery? Written or verbal?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that you’re not-so-subtle way of asking where Clarice is?” Jacks asks, smoothing his fingers over the rim of his hat. “She offered, but I thought it would be best if we talked.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The car ride to Wolf Trap is a quiet one until they reach the winding road that leads to Will’s old home on the hill. A chilly wind blows the trees on either side of the car back and forth. If Will lets his eyes fall closed a little he can pretend that the trees are really waves and the wind is just the sound of water crashing on the sand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen, Will-“ Jack starts. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not coming back Jack-“ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t about you coming back to the BAU. This is about Clarice Starling.” Jack pulls to the side of the road and turns off the car. “I’d like us to get a few things straight. Clarice is a very bright young mind and a compassionate human being. Her well-being is of importance to me on a personal level.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How well do you know her…?” Will says slowly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Her mother died when she was a child and her father was murdered when she was a teenager. I worked the case. Even then, I could tell that she was a smart kid, who with some guidance, could do some seriously good things with her life. After the murder of her father, she became very interested in work as an agent with the FBI. I’ve monitored her progress over the years and against my usual instincts to keep potential agents at arm’s length, I took her under my wing. She’s something like a daughter to me, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will takes all of this in, his brows knitting together. He sees where this conversation is going and he’s not sure he wants it to continue, but Jack presses onwards. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I had my reasons for asking her to look out for you. I thought Clarice may be able to understand you better than most and I like to think that maybe you appreciate my lending her to you to aid in your recovery. Clarice doesn’t need me fathering her, but I’ll do it all the same.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going to cut to the chase or should I?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head. “Look, the kid’s taken a shine to you. I’ve told her what I thought was appropriate for her to know and nothing more. What the two of you decide to share with one another is none of my business. But, Will, if you hurt her, if you drag her into something-“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clarice is a friend, Jack. That’s all. I barely know her. Besides, Molly and I just divorced-“ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s a good kid.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s not a kid, Jack. Not anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack starts the car again and when they reach his house both of them stare at the little white house with something like dread. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lotta memories here,” Jack says, quietly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing, but ghosts.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will gets his bags and trudges inside. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Clarice stops on her way to Jack’s house to pick up some dinner. She’s never been very domestic and she’s not about to start now. Her mother had died so long ago that she barely remembers her and her father was always working so naturally, her meals mostly consisted of cereal and tv dinners. The only decent meals she’d ever eaten had been made by a friend of the family and she didn’t much like to think about them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A beet burger, Clarice?” Jack’s disdain is clear, but Clarice smiles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to start eating better, Jack. If you don’t take care of yourself, who will?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You, apparently,” Jack says, shaking his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks for having me over.”.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, thanks for coming. I know you’re pretty busy these days.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice detects a second meaning in his words. “You mean with Will?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about Will?” Jack doesn’t look up, suddenly very focused on dismantling and examining his burger. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice purses her lips. “Jack. If you have something to say, then say it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I just want you to be careful, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You were the one who asked if I would be interested in helping get him back on his feet!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know that and I clearly made a good call. I knew the two of you would get along and I knew you’d probably understand him better than anyone else,” Jack explains, “but I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you. Will is damaged, Clarice. He’s seen and done a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I appreciate your concern, but as you know, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> take care of myself,” Clarice replies, wiping her hands off on a napkin. “Will isn’t any more damaged than I am. We’ve all seen our fair share of the dark.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will’s different.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will is a raw bundle of nerves, right now. He’s scared to let himself feel anything. He’s lost his family and his friends-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“His friends are still here even if he chooses to ignore them,” Jack grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what I mean. He could use someone in his corner and I’m there.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve always had a big heart, kid. It makes you a walking target in times like these.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice lets his words wash over her. “I want to help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You like him. I may be old, but I’m not blind,” Jack says, raising his eyebrows. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he’s a good person that bad things have happened to and I know what that’s like. I know what it’s like to feel what he’s feeling. I’ve gotten to know him a little in my time with him at the hospital. You told me you didn’t think he needed to be alone, but that he wouldn’t reach out. So, I did instead. I reached out and I think he’s trying to reach back.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They finish their dinner in silence and go on the front steps to have a beer. As they stare out at the setting sun, Clarice says, “I’ve always trusted your judgement, Jack. I’ve always heard you out. Can you just trust me a little on this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack watches her closely, finally accepting that she’s not going to let this go. “Hannibal Lecter could still be out there and he would have no qualms maiming or killing you both. Just be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t I always?” Clarice says, draining the last of her drink. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Will’s house looks as though it’s been sealed in a time capsule. All of the furniture sits in its rightful place. The only things missing are his tacklebox and dog beds. Molly called earlier to tell him she would be sending them his way in just a few days. He wishes he could’ve seen the house they shared together one last time, but understands why Molly wanted to move on so quickly. Everything can be nice and neat and relatively painless now. Except his heart is still aching, so did her tactic really work at all?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sheets cover all the tables and chairs and Will spends part of his first day home just clearing away the cobwebs and opening the windows to let fresh air in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No amount of fresh air can clear away the stench of the past that lingers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Will thinks. He crouches down next to the large window in the living room and trails his fingers across the wood panel there. To anyone else, the panel would appear to match the rest of the floor, but Will can still see the rust colored stains of Randall Tier’s blood. When he sits on the bed, he can almost feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. He hates the tainted feeling in his chest. It’s as though he’s suffered a great loss while at the same time finally released a great burden from his shoulders. If he sits still too long, he begins to hear faint hoofbeats and primal calls, so he keeps moving to distract himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will chops wood for the fireplace, even though the air outside is beginning to warm as spring approaches. He goes to the grocery store, feeling out of place amongst all the people, rushing through the aisles until he makes it back to his car. His chest feels tight and his skin is clammy; too many eyes looking at him at once. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do they recognize me?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wonders. Then he decides he doesn’t care and puts his foot to the gas pedal. <br/></span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>When Molly arrives with the dogs, Will almost asks her inside for a coffee, but he can tell by her body language that the closeness of the encounter makes her uncomfortable. Molly is just as gutted by the divorce as he is and she’s afraid that if she touches him, she won’t be able to stop herself from trying to take everything back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is for the best,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will thinks she tells herself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is necessary.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He looks different than the last time she saw him. His hair is longer and without the bandage covering the side of his face she can see the echo of a deep gash there - physical evidence of all that’s changed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s Wally? Liking Oregon?” Wally’s father had been a baseball player from Oregon;his parents still lived there and Molly had for a short while after her husband’s death. She’d returned there with Wally, to keep him close to his grandparents, she said. But, Will knew that it was a closeness with her old life that she really craved.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s doing really well, finishing up school and all. He’s happy to get to spend time with his grandparents.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m adjusting. How are you? You look good.” Molly tries not to stare at the scar. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will smirks. “You were never a good liar, Molly.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Molly reluctantly smiles. “Okay, so you look a little rough these days. How’re you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, being back here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will shrugs. “Strange. I didn't think I’d ever come back to this place.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What he doesn’t say is </span>
  <em>
    <span>resigned; </span>
  </em>
  <span>resigned to the idea that he’ll always end up right back where he started. The cyclical nature of life sickens him. No matter what turns he makes his path always seems to send him back to where he started. He’s marked in that way. Even when he tried to put a final end to it all, he wound up back here, alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thought follows him for the rest of the day, but the dogs ease his sorrow. Winston in particular sticks to him like glue. They all lay in a pile in the floor with Will at the center, stroking soft little ears and rubbing exposed bellies. He falls asleep to the comforting sounds of little snores all around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will works hard to move on from his past. Clarice receives a dangerous reminder from her own past, deciding to face the threat head on.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s a crystal clear, bright day in Virginia. Will turns his face towards the sun breaking through the beams of the old barn. He can see dust motes in the air above him and can’t resist the urge to reach out with his fingers and watch them scatter. Bits and pieces of hardware are spread out over his work bench. He looks through the little piles of parts to try and find the pieces he needs. The job is methodical and requires his full attention for the most part. He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he glances at his watch and his stomach grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Deciding to go inside for lunch, he walks back to the house with Buster trotting along beside him. Watching him makes Will smile and the tightness in his chest eases a little. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It returns in full force when he gets close enough to the porch to see the front door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s ajar, just barely, but enough for Will to notice. He knows he shut the door when he came outside. He looks around fervently, but with hardly any trees for cover, it would be hard to hide from his sight. He starts to feel light-headed with panic, but forces himself to breathe deeply. Something feels wrong. When he gets to the door he inspects it carefully. The lock is still intact and functional and there are no signs of forced entry. He wishes he’d brought a gun outside with him and then quickly hates himself for having the thought at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I being paranoid? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He quickly shakes off the self doubt. He’s been there before, questioning his sanity, and he doesn’t wish to return there. He checks the entire house anyways while the dogs sit quietly in the living room. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If it was someone they recognized they wouldn’t bark. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His head starts to hurt and, when he’s finally satisfied that he’s alone in the house, he downs a few aspirin and takes a drive into town. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Clarice arrives at 6:30 sharp, her old pick-up truck huffing its way up the long driveway to Will’s house. When she reaches it, she can’t help but smile. It’s exactly the sort of place she’d always dreamed of owning when she was a child. It reminds her of her childhood home in West Virginia. She hasn’t been there in so long and she’s likely to never return. There’s a new family there now, blissfully ignorant to the horrors that haunted her there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She gets out of her car and spots Will fiddling with the front door. He turns to watch her walk up to his porch and a warmth begins to spread through his body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Need a hand?” Clarice asks, hands in her pockets. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm nearly finished actually. Just tightening some screws,” Will answers. “Come on up. You can hold the door still if you want.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice does as Will suggests and holds the door steady while finishes installing the new lock. She watches him work his jaw and lick his lips as he concentrates. Her cheeks are flushed when he looks up at her, but he assumes it’s because of the chilly winds sweeping through. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s get you inside and warm,” he murmurs, holding the door open for her. He scratches his jaw self consciously as all the dogs leap up and shower Clarice with attention. Will makes a small noise and the dogs all settle down at her feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cute and well-behaved,” Clarice says, looking back at Will. “Can I drop to the floor and cuddle them now?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Be my guest,” Will replies with a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She settles herself down on the rug and scratches ears and rubs noses with each of the dogs and they quickly take a liking to her and she them. “I always wanted a dog,” she reveals, “but my daddy never would let me get one. Too much of a distraction for someone training to join law enforcement.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I like the distraction,” Will breathes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dogs never do ask much of us, huh? All they do is love us, no questions asked.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what I always told Molly. Dogs are the best housemates.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you miss them?” Clarice asks looking up at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will sighs. “Yes, but I also understand why she chose to separate herself from me.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make it any less painful.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it doesn’t,” Will concedes. “Want anything to drink? I’ve got water, whiskey, beer, soda…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll have whiskey, please.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cute and well-behaved!” Will proclaims as he walks down the hall to the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you very much,” Clarice says after he returns, flicking his knee when he sits down in the chair across from her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will only grins. The firelight brings out the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. Clarice pulls out her book. “Shall we begin where he left off?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I ask you a question?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice closes the book on her finger, marking their place. “I think you just did.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did Jack...say anything to you? About me?” Will asks. He watches her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not what you think he might have,” Clarice responds. Will raises his eyebrows and she continues. “He only told me that you’d had more than a few run-ins with some unsavory characters, including Hannibal Lecter.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Unsavory characters...that’s an understatement.” Will sits back in his chair and takes a swig of his whiskey. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did Jack tell you anything about me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only that he cares about you and, should I soil your good reputation or put you in harm’s way, he’ll have me killed.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds about right,” Clarice says with a shrug. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Quietly, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But, of course,” Clarice says. “Not scared of Jack’s wrath?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not any more than you are,” Will responds. He leans forward in his chair again. “I know Jack’s weak spots.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice leans forward too until they’re face-to-face with little distance between them. “But do you know mine?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s eyes fall to Clarice’s lips, but before he can figure out what exactly he wants to do next, Clarice stands up and looks out the window. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why were you changing your locks?” She asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He blanches at the quick change in topic and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. “I just felt like I needed to change them if I’m going to be living here again. Just in case.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re safe though.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For now. I’d rather be a little paranoid than a lot of dead...are you okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice stirs from her thoughts and turns to look at Will. “Yeah! Yes. Sorry. I was just worried that something had happened.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will almost tells her what happened, but worries that she’ll think he’s unstable and tell Jack. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Should I tell Jack? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will pushes the thought aside and focuses on Clarice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing happened. Everything’s fine. I was just being extra cautious.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s understandable, given everything that’s happened.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will can tell that she knows he isn’t telling her everything but she doesn’t press him for more information. He steps close to her and pulls the book from her hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How about I read to you this time?” Will asks, softly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice graces him with a wide smile and they settle down on the floor with the dogs. Will’s voice is even and warm and Clarice begins to doze. Will watches her fall asleep out of the corner of his eye and closes the book when her breathing becomes even. He lays on his back next to her, looking up at the ceiling. He needs to wake her and send her home, but he wants to ask her to stay. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s too soon after Molly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will tells himself, but whether it’s too soon or not, he still wishes she could stay. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes her, she’s disoriented. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know the feeling,” Will says, gently brushing a stray hair back from her face. His fingers tingle and he wads them into a fist before stretching them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice looks at him sleepily. “How long was I out?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not long. You’d better get home before it gets too late though,” Will says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice looks up at the clock on the mantle. “Shit. You’re right. Saint is probably wondering where I am.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will stands and puts out his hand. Clarice reaches out and puts her hand in his. His hand engulfs hers and tugs her upwards. Their hands remain clasped between them for a moment too long. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for having me over.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will nods and looks at his shoes. “Any time.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before she can overthink it, Clarice embraces him tightly. Then she’s out the door and down the steps before Will can even respond. He waves to her from the porch as she drives away and when she’s gone he pours himself another two fingers of whiskey. He downs it and flops down onto his bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What am I doing?” He says to the room. “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> am I doing?” </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s mind wanders the whole drive home. The thought of having slept unguarded on the floor next to someone makes her feel like a child. Will’s presence and home were comforting to her. She rarely sleeps these days, but she’s a little embarrassed all the same. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did I snore? Please, for the love of all things good and holy don’t let me have snored in front of Will Graham.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She parks on the street outside her apartment and leans back against the headrest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He just got out of a relationship - a marriage. Stop being such an idiot over him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she tells herself. Trying to clear her head of thoughts of Will, she climbs the stairs and presses the button for security to let her into the building. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mail for you, Miss Starling,” The night guard says. “It was delivered while you were gone.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice sees the deep red paper and her skin crawls. “By whom?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t recognize him, ma’am. He dropped this off and left.” He holds the letter out to her, growing impatient. “Are you going to take it?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice steels herself and takes the letter from his hand, holding it between two fingers. “Thanks, Charlie. Take it easy.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She climbs the stairs two at a time and unlocks her door, looking both ways down the hallway, heart pounding in her chest. Once she’s inside she throws the letter on the counter like there’s a snake inside about to strike. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, she considers calling Jack. Her finger hovers over his contact in her phone. She bites her lip hard enough to make it bleed and goes to the bathroom. Saint trots down the hall, confused at her lack of reception. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, buddy,” Clarice murmurs. She crouches down and buries her face in his neck, stroking his fur. Then she locks herself in the bathroom and turns on the water in the shower. Once the room is filled with steam she undresses and steps into the scalding stream of water. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Water runs down her face and neck and she hugs herself tightly until her fingers turn white. She slowly washes herself until she feels sufficiently cleansed and towels off without looking in the mirror. Her hair hangs over her shoulders, dripping onto the tile floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she picks up her clothes from the floor she catches a whiff of Will’s aftershave. She breathes it in before tossing them in the laundry basket. Then she dresses and sits at the kitchen counter staring at the envelope. She dons a pair of gloves and takes it in her hand, carefully opening it. The handwriting is instantly recognizable from the letters he sent her for the first year after her father’s murder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tears gather in her eyes as she unfolds the letter and reads its contents. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My dear Clarice, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope this letter finds you well. I must say, you've grown so much since last we met. The white in your hair, is it new? I very much hope to meet with you soon. I’m pleased to see that you’ve already made Will Graham’s acquaintance. I knew that you would take an interest in him. He’s quite a puzzling creature. How did the two of you meet? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yours always, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>H.L. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hands shaking, Clarice folds the letter up and carefully places it back in the envelope. Then she drops it into a ziplock bag, fighting down the urge to unload the contents of her stomach onto the kitchen counter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She sinks down onto the sofa and buries her fingers in Saint’s fur. When she finally goes to bed, it’s with a loaded 9mm glock sitting on her nightstand. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <span>“Thanks for doing this, Price. I really appreciate it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Price leans close to the envelope and works his magic, searching for fingerprints. Clarice watches him, dread still curled in her stomach. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who is it you suspect this letter is from, Ms. Starling?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice hesitates before lying. “I don’t suspect anyone. That’s why I came to you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Price looks up from his work with a raised eyebrow. “Well, whoever sent it was careful not to leave any prints. If this is potentially dangerous, maybe we should take it to Crawford.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually, I’d prefer if we just kept it between the two of us, if you don’t mind.” She doesn’t elaborate nor does she break eye contact. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’s already decided - if Price finds a print confirming that the letter was sent by Hannibal, she’ll put it in the Bureau's hands. If there are no prints, the letter will sit on someone’s desk long enough to let Hannibal fulfill whatever task he’s set for himself. There’s no point in putting Jack through any of this if she doesn’t have to. No, better to handle this her own way than to let Hannibal continue to play his games. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well...I don’t know…” Price seems to struggle with the idea of keeping something from Jack. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, Jack’s got enough on his plate, Price. This is just a stupid letter that was left in my mailbox. I thought maybe it was from Pilcher. There’s no signature on the actual letter.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you mind if I look at the letter for prints?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The contents are rather personal. Pilcher’s an ex, you know. I just wanted to make sure that it was him before I called and told him to move on.” Clarice explains. Her jaw is wound tight and she wishes he’d stop prying. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, alright. Just between you and me then,” Price agrees. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice feels guilty for lying to Price. He’s always been kind to her and made her laugh when she’s needed cheering up. Jack had made him sit with her on the steps of her old home while they went in to retrieve her father’s body. She’s never forgotten Beverly Katz’s reassuring fingers helping her wash the blood from her hair either. She stops on her way out of Price’s office to look at the wall of fallen agents and quickly finds Bev’s picture. Her fingers ghost over Bev’s smile. She looks down at the envelope in her hands and nearly cries right there in a hallway of the FBI. While Hannibal Lecter lives, she’ll never feel an ounce of peace. The cold caress of his pale fingers on her cheek will always haunt her, just as the screams of the spring lambs going to slaughter on her family’s farm will. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There is never any quiet in her mind. There's nothing but noise there. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Will sits in his study, head in his hands, trying not to look at the desk. Spread across the top of it are news clippings and old case files. Every night he feels the eyes of the dead on him when he sleeps. Tonight, he intends to put the dead to rest. He chops firewood until his arms ache and his hands blister. Then he makes a small fire in his backyard and carries the files outside. One-by-one he places the files in the fire, watching the paper curl and blacken. The last thing he throws in are the letters Hannibal sent him after his incarceration. Even now, he remembers the look on Hannibal’s face as he was arrested. A look of triumph emanated from his eyes. Despite Will’s efforts to separate himself, despite his decision to allow Hannibal to get a head start out his front door, Hannibal stayed. In staying, he had taken away Will’s choice in the matter. Hannibal’s imprisonment had really been Will’s, as was his intention when he surrendered. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will rips the letters into pieces and dumps them in the fire. As they burn, he feels a burden lift from his shoulders, the weight there a little lighter. He is cauterizing the wound, burning the infection from his soul. Hannibal no longer has control of his life. Will made sure of that when he embraced him and forced the two of them over the edge of the cliff. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he dreams that night, he’s on the water, floating in the dark. Stars stare down at him through pinholes in the sky. He closes his eyes and sinks beneath the water, letting it wash over him. He dreams that it cleanses him of his sin. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, there is no escaping what he’s done. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A hand reaches up from below him to grab his ankle and drag him down, down, down. He knows before looking that the Wendigo has him in its claws again. He screams and screams but no one can hear him beneath all that water. Not even the bubbles will reach the surface. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Will startles awake to the sound of knocking. Disoriented and confused as to who would be calling so late, he pulls on a pair of pants and stumbles to the front door. He pauses for a moment, his breath quickening and his palms sweating. What if…? He looks to the shotgun mounted above his fireplace, gritting his teeth, then grabs it and carries it to the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he opens it, it’s Clarice’s face he sees. He instantly relaxes his grip on the gun and opens the door wider for her to enter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Will says, voice rough with sleep. He leans the shotgun against the wall by the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Expecting someone?” Clarice asks, watching him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not at all. It’s just late and I…” He trails off, suddenly embarrassed by his own anxiety. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it? I’m so sorry...I just have something to take care of and I’m not sure how long I’ll be away. I wanted to stop and say goodbye.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will is moved by the gesture, his heart suddenly aching with want. He smashes it down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you going? Is Jack sending you somewhere?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Clarice responds. “It’s a personal matter. Nothing serious.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will senses that something isn’t quite right. He moves closer to her, feeling her out. “Must be serious enough for you to travel this late at night.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice laughs, but it’s short and shifty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clarice, what’s going?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She finally looks up at him, her eyes glimmering in the faint light of the lamp. “Oh, Will.” She steps closer and pushes a damp curl away from his face. “You need a haircut. Are you feeling okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Will mutters. “I was dreaming. You didn’t answer my question.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing’s going on, Will. I’ll be back soon.” Her heart aches. She knows realistically she may not return from her journey. “I just wanted to say bye is all. I’m sorry, I woke you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be,” Will responds. “You can knock on my door anytime.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so sincere and it breaks her heart. Clarice steps into his space and wraps her arms around him. Will feels the weakened walls of his mental fortress falling away. He can feel the tension and fear coursing through her system as he enfolds her in his arms. She listens to his heart beat for a few seconds before pulling away to look at him again. He rubs his hands up and down her arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever is happening, you can tell me,” he whispers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice almost does. She wants so badly to tell him everything, but more than that she wants him alive. Before she can talk herself out of it she leans forward and captures his lips with hers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been a long time since Will has felt anyone’s lips on his. It’s been even longer since those lips weren’t Molly’s. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like. His eyes close and he raises his hands to gently cup her cheeks. At first he doesn’t understand the fluttery feeling in his stomach, but then the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>butterflies</span>
  </em>
  <span> comes to mind. It reminds him of his first kiss and being too young to understand how dark the world really is. Her skin is so soft beneath his touch. One of his hands moves down her neck and for a fleeting moment he sees the Clarice from his nightmare, but he shoves the image away with as much strength as he can. This is as close to heaven as he’s likely to get. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As Will’s hand moves to her lower back and his lips open further, Clarice pulls away. For a second, as though magnetized, their lips hover close, but then she’s untangling herself from his arms. The room feels so much colder without her body pressed against his. Will’s lips tingle and his neck feels hot. He opens his eyes and looks into Clarice’s, letting her see as much or as little as she wants in him. Her bottom lip quivers and she gently drags her thumb across his lower lip. Then she wipes a stray tear from her cheek and turns her back on him before Will can see. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Clarice says after clearing her throat. “I don’t know what came over me. Please forgive me.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She crosses the few steps to the door and walks outside without looking back. Will stands stunned until his brain catches up with what just happened. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait! Clarice!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice turns to look at him one last time, standing barefoot on his porch, the warm light of his living room shining around his silhouette. She’s never seen anyone more handsome. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see you soon,” she manages to say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then she climbs inside her car and pulls away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clarice goes head-to-head with an old friend.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Clarice Starling was one of the top five students in her class at the FBI Academy. She excelled in all her courses, but was particularly good with firearms. She remembers all those years watching her daddy leave with a pistol in his holster and a shotgun in his truck. Maybe if he’d had his gun next to him that night, he wouldn’t have died. Maybe he would’ve killed his assailant. How different Clarice’s life would be - she may never have joined law enforcement or met Jack Crawford. She wouldn’t have gotten to know Beverly Katz or Jimmy Price. She may have grown up normal and been married and settled down by now. Deep down she knows that isn’t true. Clarice was a restless spirit before her father passed away, but his death gave her purpose. If none of it had happened, she may never have met Will Graham. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice will never forget the look on his face as she pulled away. She hopes that if she makes it past this night, Will will forgive her for behaving so recklessly. Her fingers ache from gripping the steering wheel, but the consistent discomfort keeps her focused on the task at head. When she finally reaches her destination, she shakes off any thought that doesn’t concern her surroundings. The front steps of the National Gallery of Art are half in shadow, the only light coming from the street lamps. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice carefully observes her environment and skirts the edge of the museum, making her way to the gardens behind it. Hannibal took her here many times when she was a young girl, to study and learn from the art as well as the people. Her father never questioned Hannibal’s intentions - he was a trusted friend and doctor, hired to help Clarice process the death of her mother. She’d been an angry teenager until Hannibal Lecter stepped in and taught her to compartmentalize.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your emotions are a distraction, Clarice. Allow them to fill you up in the moment and you lose sight of what’s to come.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice remembers that moment as if it were yesterday. Hannibal’s glossy dark hair glimmered in the sun. He sketched her while they spoke, bringing a sense of the romantic and ethereal to her appearance on paper. At the time, she felt flattered that he had drawn her in such a light, but she’s wiser now. His art was just one of his many forms of manipulation. She reaches the center of the garden and slides her gun from it’s holster, ready to squeeze the trigger should the shadows begin to move. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you? I know you’re here,” Clarice mutters to herself. She hears movement to her right and swings her arms up, muscle memory allowing her to focus her aim without thought. The noise moves closer, more to the left this time. “Goddamnit, Hannibal. Don’t play with me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She prays that she’s greeted with nothing but silence, but God has never answered her prayers before and he won’t tonight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Clarice,” a slippery, soft voice says in the darkness. “We always had such fun though.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s heart flutters in her chest and she fights to remain calm. She squints and scans her surroundings, trying to figure out where he’s hiding. “Maybe you did. I certainly didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Be honest with yourself. Isn’t that what we were focusing on in our last appointment? Self-realization and honesty?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t really remember.” Clarice, responds. “It’s been almost 10 years.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Another lie? Well, I can’t say I expected a warm reception after our last meeting.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean after you used my dad as a pin cushion before you ate his liver?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Put the gun away, Clarice, and I’ll come out. I’ve been following your progress at the FBI closely. I’ve heard you’re an excellent shot.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Best in the class.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where the hell is he?</span>
  </em>
  <span> She steps around a bush, careful not to brush up against it. “I’m not putting down my gun.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I had hoped we could do this as civilized adults.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Civilized?” Clarice laughs. “That’s rich, coming from you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your voice is shaking. Are you scared?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice fights hard to steady herself. “Are you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you I’d never harm you, Clarice. I would cut off my own hand before I’d hurt you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Suddenly she’s seventeen, hiding in the closet, her feet wet with blood. She can hear the gurgling of her father’s last breaths beyond the door. Unable to hold it down any longer she lets out a sob. The doorknob begins to turn and she wants to scream, but she swallows it down. Hannibal looks down at her, hugging her knees to her chest, and crouches down to her eye level. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s over now, Clarice. You can come out.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice shakes her head so hard she gets dizzy. She can see her father’s mutilated body over Hannibal’s shoulder and bile rises in her throat. Hannibal reaches out and brushes her hair, damp with sweat and tears, back from her face. His gloves are soaked in blood and she feels it drip onto her skin.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please, just kill me. Please, don’t drag it out.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m not going to hurt you.” Hannibal looks at her like the mere idea is absurd.“I would never hurt you. I promise.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why?” Clarice cries, her eyes still stuck to her father’s bloodied form on the floor. Forks and knives stick out of his skin. Tools from the garage and the pen she wrote school papers with protrude from his body like the needles of a porcupine. Strange thoughts of him crawling towards her on all fours come to mind and she dry heaves, drool falling down her chin to mix with the snot. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes at her face. “Your father was not a good man, Clarice. He never treated you as well as you deserve. He couldn’t see how special you are.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?” Clarice asks, her eyes finally looking into Hannibal’s. The very same brown eyes that had appraised her for half of her life look at her now with an almost maniacal glint. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your father died with your mother, Clarice. He was neglectful and filled with hate. I’ve made it all right. You never have to listen to him shout at you again. No more drunken nights. No more eating dinner alone. I’ll protect you now.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The weight of his words bear down on her. “You did this for me?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal smiles and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Pack a bag and we’ll leave here tonight. You’ll never have to look at this town again. I can show you so many things, Clarice. I can take you anywhere you want to go.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice stands up on shaking knees, her breath coming in great gasps. “Anywhere?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Anywhere.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice looks at her father again. For a moment, she isn’t sure what she’s going to do next. She could run away from it all. Disgust rages through her veins directly after the thought. Clarice loved - loves - her father. Even when he drank and yelled. Even when he didn’t come out of his room for days at a time. Even when he stayed out long after his patrol shift ended. She looks up at Hannibal and smiles. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay,” Clarice says. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal looks at her with pride. “That’s a good girl. Go and grab your things. Pack light! Anything you need, I will provide. Go, quick!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When she descends the stairs, Hannibal is packing organs into bags and loading them into an icebox. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Could I say goodbye?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Of course,” Hannibal says, placing his hand against her cheek. “You’re cold, child. Say your goodbyes and meet me in the car. I’ll warm it up. Be quick.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice nods and hugs Hannibal tightly, gritting her teeth. Hannibal wraps his arms around her shaking form and smooths her hair down. Then he grabs the bag she’s filled and disappears through the door. She drops down next to her father, blood soaking through the knees of her pajamas. Snow flies in through the open front door, mixing with hot blood. Clarice puts her hands on her father’s still face. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry.” Her tears fall and mix with his own, still wet on his cheeks. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice kisses his forehead, his blood metallic and tangy against her lips. Then she stands and walks outside into the snow barefoot. Her feet sting with cold, but she keeps going until she’s standing with Hannibal. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ve forgotten your shoes,” Hannibal says, face colored with concern. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“My extra pair of snow boots are in the truck. Please, don’t make me go back in there,” she says, tears threatening to overflow again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal nods and she runs to her dad’s pick-up truck and yanks open the door. For once in her life, she’s grateful that he never listened to her about keeping the doors locked. She reaches inside and her hands touch what she’s looking for. The cold metal and wood of the shotgun makes her hands ache, but she can barely feel it. She hears her father's voice inside her head. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Just point and squeeze. It’s not just a tool, it’s an extension of your arm. It’s a part of you and you control it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She swings the gun around and points it directly at Hannibal's heart. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Leave,” Clarice whispers, then louder, “go!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal’s face is filled with disappointment, the first time she’s seen it directed at her. “I did what you wanted and I’m giving you a chance to be free. You’re wasting a great opportunity. I’ve given you a gift.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You murdered my dad...you killed…” Clarice’s knees are weak, but her grip on the shotgun is firm. “Don’t ever come back here. If you don’t leave, I’ll put a hole in you.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To Clarice’s surprise, Hannibal smiles widely, pride in his eyes. She</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> fires at the passenger door of his car. The metal bends inward with the force of the shot and pieces of metal fly into the air around them. Hannibal doesn’t flinch. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll see you again one day, Clarice,” Hannibal says, gently. “Keep in touch.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice watches the red taillights of his car disappear into the night. She’s still gripping the shotgun when police arrive in the scene.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You hurt me worse than you hurt my father that night, Hannibal. You’re never going to understand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice lowers her gun and slides it into the holster on her hip. Hannibal seems to appear from the shadows like a mist, slowly taking shape. His hair is streaked with gray now and his face is heavily scarred. She tries not to stare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your father died because he deserved to. You wanted him dead.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” Clarice asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a bone to pick with someone.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice gathered that this was coming, but she hates it all the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“With Will Graham?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll talk about that in a moment. Why don’t we sit?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to sit,” Clarice says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then, let’s walk shall we?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal begins to walk at a lazy pace. Clarice struggles with herself for a moment before falling in step beside him. How many times did they walk through these gardens together? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t come here to catch up,” Clarice says, wiping the sweat from her upper lip. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>you come then?” Hannibal asks, pausing to look at her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His scars are even worse up close, a tangled mess. His nose looks different than she remembers, but his eyes are exactly the same. They’re just as cold, dark, and calculating as they were the night he crouched down on the closet floor. Clarice narrows her eyes, trying to read him, but Hannibal has always been something of a mystery to her. It’s why she was so drawn to him at one time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps you are as curious about me after all these years as I am about you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna know the truth?” Clarice says, leaning close to him. She knows he can smell the tangy scent of her fear, but she’s sure as hell not going to show it. “I came here to kill you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal laughs. “If you were here to kill me, you would’ve done it already.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice clenches her jaw and leans back, her blood beginning to boil. “I should’ve killed you ten years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You still carry so much guilt and anger,” Hannibal muses. “You’re still troubled by your past. Did you think the lambs would stop screaming if you killed me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Clarice says with a shrug. “It wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you, maybe. Me, however…” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s fingers begin to twitch. If she could just catch him off guard, she could do it. She could kill him right here in their garden. There’s even a slim chance he won’t gut her while she does it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you make Will Graham’s acquaintance? Or is it something more?” Hannibal asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I met him through Jack Crawford. I barely know him,” Clarice lies. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can always tell when you’re lying, Clarice. Will Graham is an enigma, wouldn’t you agree? An empathy disorder that allows him to inhabit the mind of a killer. It’s a true rarity.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve always liked the idea of owning shiny new toys. That’s all people are to you. Food and playthings.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal chuckles. “Sometimes both! I had hoped, much like with you, that Will and I could become a team. Will’s ability to empathize with every living being makes him moldable. I’ve never encountered someone so utterly disectable. Has he told you all the horrors </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> committed?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s stomach turns. “You had your fun with Will Graham, already. I thought you were here to play with me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He hasn’t told you, then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice ignores the question.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will Graham and I are very much the same. You’ve always been drawn to the darkness haven’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will is nothing like you,” Clarice growls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you barely knew him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's then that she accepts that he’s never going to stop doing this. Some small naive part of her had always hoped that he would turn back into the loving caregiver she’d known him as during her youth, that he had suffered a break from reality, but could find a way to recover his humanity. You cannot recover what you’ve never had. Hannibal’s fate had been sealed by his choices long before he met Clarice and Will Graham. Hannibal will continue to kill and gorge himself on the life of others as long as he’s on this earth. He’ll never stop hunting Will. He’ll never stop torturing Clarice until all she has left is him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice stops moving, but Hannibal continues onward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hannibal?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stops and turns to face her. “Yes?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you ever really care about me? Or was my suffering just a stepping stone in your path of destruction?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal appears to ponder her question for a moment. “I believe it was as close to caring as I am capable of.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice nods and wipes away the single tear making its way down her cheek. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were really something back then,” Clarice tells him. “My time under your care had a great impact on who I grew into. Just not the way you wanted it to. I loved my dad and you took him from me and tried to convince me that I’d asked you for it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You did.” Hannibal shrugs. “You asked me in the only way you knew how.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was a kid,” Clarice argues. “I was mad at him. I was angry and I said something I didn’t mean. You knew I never meant it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Words are very powerful, Clarice. Yours killed your father.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice looks to the sky and makes her decision.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s cut the bullshit, Hannibal. Is this grand plan you have for Will worth your life?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I admit, it’s becoming a bit tiresome, chasing one another in circles, but I fear one of us must end this agony.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then let it be me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice raises the gun with ease and fires two shots into Hannibal’s chest. He falls backward almost gracefully, arching backward with the force of the shots. She fights down the urge to puke as he hits the ground. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Make sure he’s dead. Then call Jack, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks. Hannibal lies incredibly still, but she keeps the gun raised. First she kicks his legs, then she moves to press her fingers to his neck. As quick as a snake, Hannibal strikes, throwing himself on top of her with the full weight of his body. All of the air in her lungs leaves in a rush. She tries to raise her gun again, but he straddles her and grabs her wrist, turning the gun away from the two of them, until her wrist snaps and she screams. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They struggle, but Hannibal’s wiry arms are stronger and he pries the gun from her hand, throwing it into the bushes nearby. Clarice throws her uninjured hand towards his face, pushing her thumb into one of his eyes, but he knocks her hand away like a fly and hits her hard. For a second, Clarice sees nothing but stars. Then he wraps his long fingers around her neck and squeezes and Hannibal’s face fills her vision. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s calm if a little out of breath, watching her struggle to breathe with interest. Clarice grips his wrists and scratches at his hands as her lungs scream for air. She’s reminded of her father, gurgling on the ground, as she hears the choked noises escaping her own mouth. She tries to keep her eyes open and focused on Hannibal. Then her hand finds his face and she rests her palm there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You... promised…” she wheezes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Spots begin appearing in Clarice’s vision. She tries to move her legs into a position to shove him off, but he’s heavier than he looks. After one final, angry squeeze Hannibal lets go. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice coughs, a sharp pain running through her head as air rushes back into her lungs. Hannibal twirls her white streak of hair around his finger and tugs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you really think I would meet you, knowing your skill with a gun, and not wear a bulletproof vest?” He makes a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tsk</span>
  </em>
  <span>-ing noise and shakes his head. “You’re smarter than that, Clarice.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he hits her again and everything turns black.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p><br/>When Clarice finally comes to, it’s the early hours of the morning. She rolls over and breathes in the smell of grass and soil. Each time she swallows, her throat aches. Her hands are bloodied and dried blood streams from her nose and mouth. Her right hand is completely numb from the wrist down until she rolls over and tries to lift herself off the ground.She yanks her hand back and groans into the dirt. When she finds the strength, she pushes herself up with one hand and finds her discarded gun and shells. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Quantico is an hour away, along with Jack’s house. Will is twenty-four minutes out. She’s not sure how long she can drive in her current state, so with a sigh she climbs into her Jeep and drives to the nearest 24-hour medical center, George Washington University Hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Will arrives, hair still tousled with sleep, the nurse is finally tending to Clarice. He scans the packed waiting room before going to the desk and asking to see her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As you can see, it’s a packed house tonight. Ms. Starling’s injuries are not life threatening, so unless you’re family I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will says what he knows will get him through the emergency room doors. “I’m her husband.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The desk clerk squints up at him suspiciously, but hits the button to open the doors all the same. He walks briskly back and forth looking for Clarice, apprehension rising each time he looks both ways and doesn’t see her. When he reaches her at the very end of the hallway, his face falls. There’s blood on her button-down shirt and pants. Her face is screwed up in pain as the nurse presses on her wrist and checks it’s range of motion. Her lips and cheek are swollen and bruised and there’s a bandage across her forehead already. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit…” Will says under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice looks up when she sees him and tears spring to her eyes. The pain in her wrist and face along with the dread she’s feeling makes her extra vulnerable. The sight of Will’s kind, familiar face after seeing Hannibal’s flat appraising eyes feels like a warm bath after a night in the cold. She releases a deep sigh, keeping her eyes on him as the nurse continues cleaning and dressing her bloodied knuckles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just relax honey,” the nurse says. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll get that wrist straightened out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a few seconds, Will and Clarice just look at each other. Then he crosses the short distance and runs the back of his hand across Clarice’s uninjured cheek. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell happened?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice doesn’t wipe away the tear that falls this time. Trying to hide how beaten down she feels will only make him more likely to question her story. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was mugged.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where? When?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was on my way out of town after I left your house. I thought I’d hit something in the road so I stopped to look. They crept up on me from behind.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where were you going?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted to visit my momma and daddy’s grave, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something dark crosses over Will’s face and a shiver goes down her spine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What did they look like? How many were there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I didn’t see them. It could’ve been two...I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will rubs the lower half of his face and sits back in the chair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you file a police report?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I mean, I didn’t see who attacked me. There’s no information for me to even give them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice’s heart starts to beat faster. The last thing she wants to do is lie to Will, but at this point in time, it feels necessary. She’d rather keep him in the dark a little while longer than have to bury him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Still. Someone needs to look for those guys and hold them accountable,” Will grumbles. He stares at the wall with a frown, lost in thought. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for calling you so early,” Clarice says looking at her boots. They’re beginning to crack apart in the crease on top. “I feel like I stole a whole night of sleep away from you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unconsciously, Will’s fingers rub over his lips. He wants to kiss her right now, but he’s not sure if it’s okay or not. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, don’t be. I’m glad you called me. Have you talked to Jack?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice shakes her head. “I’m going to get my ass chewed out when I do though.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been there before. Quite a few times, actually.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse returns and begins the process of putting on a temporary cast. Will’s thoughts turn to whoever hurt Clarice, an itch starting just beneath his skin. If he had been there, it wouldn’t be Clarice sitting in the hospital. The ease with which the thought comes to him scares him a little. He balls his fists up and shoves them in his pockets, trying not to think about what he did to Randall Tier with his bare hands, what he would do if he got his hands on Clarice’s attacker.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice waits until the swelling in her face goes down and she gets her permanent cast before meeting Jack at a restaurant for lunch. She weighs her options while she waits for him; tell him what really happened or keep it to herself? Either way, being in a public space lessens the chances of a massive tongue lashing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack is shown to their table by a server who regards Clarice warily through horn-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t look surprised to see her looking scuffed up. He sits down, slowly unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. Then he sits back with his arms folded over his chest with one eyebrow raised. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, you gonna tell me what really happened?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice swallows, feeling like a kid about to get in a hell of a lot of trouble. “How’d you find out?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will spilled the beans,” Jack responds. “Told me that you got mugged and to go easy on you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit. I thought Will was supposed to be good about keeping things to himself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, he is.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice bites the inside of her cheek and waits. When the silence becomes unbearable, she finally fills it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, it was late at night -”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do not try and spin me the same story you told Will. I know you too well. There’s no way in hell two people caught you by surprise on the side of the road. You’re too cautious and vigilant for that kind of thing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Looks like my decision has been made for me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clarice thinks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, fine. Look, I didn’t want to tell Will what happened because I don’t think he’s in a position to deal with what I’m about to tell you. Mentally or emotionally.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack’s eyes narrow. “Where did you go?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“D.C. I got this in the mail.” Clarice throws the dark envelope on the table between them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack picks it up and reads the letter inside, his face growing darker by the second. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“When did you get this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A week or so ago. The night guard didn’t recognize the man who dropped it off,” Clarice tells him. He doesn’t say anything so she rushes onward. “I knew if he wanted to meet me, he’d be in the gardens behind the National Gallery of Art. It was our spot. He used to take me there on the weekends while my dad worked.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell me, kid?” Jack asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re retired, Jack. I don’t trust anyone left at the Bureau enough to tell them. What could you have done?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I could’ve gone with you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He would’ve known and he wouldn’t have come out to talk to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks to me like you didn’t do much talking,” he says, gesturing to her face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted to end it, Jack. I wanted to do what I couldn’t do 10 years ago. It needed to be me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head, about to interrupt, but she stops him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen Jack, I shot him twice. Both times in the chest. He was wearing a bullet-proof vest and said he’d been following my progress at the academy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I figured he would. Which is why you should have come to me in the first place.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, alright? It’s too late. I made a mistake. The damage is done. I just want to avoid more damage.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then take this letter to the Bureau and leave it in their hands,” Jack says gently. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Clarice replies firmly. “I’m not going to turn this in and watch him go back to a prison cell he can escape from and go through a trial he’ll find a way out of. He has a plan and he’s going to enact it. Whether it’s now or another ten years from now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A plan to do with Will?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice nods her head. “I need to put an end to this. Will’s been through enough.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you really think you can keep this from him? You’ve been around him often enough to know what he’s like. You won’t be able to keep him out of it for long and then where will you be?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a place to be thrown back into this.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Neither are you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Clarice mumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your face and wrist say otherwise. Are those handprints on your throat?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice pulls her jacket closer around her neck. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to have to tell Will eventually. Then you’ll have to tell him everything else.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice knows that Jack is right, but it doesn’t make the prospect any easier to swallow. </span>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will finds himself getting lost in the past. He wants to badly to cleanse himself of the blood he’s steeped in and to find closure.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Will is inside making the dogs’ food when he hears it. A faint whistling on the wind. He pauses for a moment, listening hard, but there’s nothing. Just as he’s about to pour the food into the dog bowl, he hears it again. It’s melodic, strange, and familiar. It’s a lonely and sinister sound. He pours the food into the bowls and lets the dogs begin to lap it up and makes his way to the front door. Out he walks, into the darkness. His eyes scan the flat plains around his house. The tall weeds shift and rustle in the wind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will stands very still in the dark, the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand up. There is a sudden change in the deepest recesses of his mind. His stomach begins to feel unsettled. There is only silence for almost a full three minutes before Will catches the sound again. This isn’t the sound of a spring wind blowing through the blades of grass. It’s a melody, being whistled through someone’s dampened lips. Will listens so carefully that he can only hear his heartbeat and the high whistle. Every other noise falls to the wayside and passes by him without sticking. He recognizes the tune and his blood turns cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bach. Goldberg Variations</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something inside him breaks open and he runs off the porch with a burst of speed towards the noise. It’s eerily quiet with only the wind, Will’s footsteps, and the whistle to listen to. Will runs toward the noise, but it only seems to move farther away. He stops, trying to find the sound again and when he catches it he takes off, running to the east. His house is far behind him now, a shadow with little yellow squares of light shining through. He thinks for a moment that he should’ve brought a gun, but thinks again that he probably wouldn’t use the damn thing anyway. Better to use his hands to finish the job. His mind is racing through a million different thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Hannibal, it has to be. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He survived and he’s come to take his revenge. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How did he survive?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sheer spite and dumb luck. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How did I survive?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The whistling abruptly stops. Will looks around wildly, but sees nothing except lone trees and bushes dotted amongst long stalks of grass. He’s panting now, half exhausted from exertion and half filled with heart-wrenching panic. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s managed to calm himself enough to think clearly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Call the police. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They’ll only show up too late and think he’s paranoid. A man too touched by tragedy, finally losing his mind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Call Clarice. </span>
  </em>
  <span>No. If it really is Hannibal it will only put her in danger. The Bureau has already proven that it can’t hold onto Lecter any easier than a person can a snake. He’s too slippery and sly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Call Jack</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He pulls his phone from his pocket, holding it against his stomach while he thinks. He walks slowly in a circle, trying to keep his eyes peeled for any suspicious movement. Jack is retired now and only works special cases. This would indeed be a special case, but again, the Bureau can’t help here. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal Lecter must die. Will gave his own life in an attempt to ensure that Hannibal died at the bottom of that eroding cliff by the sea. He didn’t care if it meant he was also dead. He still doesn’t care. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not entirely true.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will thinks of Clarice for a fleeting moment, but pushes the thought away. He has been gutted, shot, and stabbed. His head has been partly opened with a bone saw. He survived severe anti-nmdar encephalitis and psychological torture. He’s been married and divorced. He’s been a father in the only way he thinks he ever can. Will has lived a lifetime in less than 5 years. He isn’t afraid of death. He’s afraid of the death of everyone else at the hands of someone so utterly enthralled with the darkest parts of him that they’re willing to kill anyone and everyone that gets in the way of his “becoming.” Hannibal doesn’t understand that no matter how hard he pushes, Will will never become what he so desperately seeks. Will can never be Hannibal’s greatest creation and triumph. He has no intention of becoming Hannibal’s last supper. Will Graham is not a killer. Not in the way that Hannibal wants so badly for him to be. No, Will Graham is so driven by compassion and a desire to protect those he cares for that he will do anything to ensure their safety at almost anyone's expense and most certainly Hannibal Lecter’s.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will looks up above himself into the tree branches and sees nothing. He walks all around his house in the quiet night. There is no whistling, but he feels sure that it wasn’t his imagination. Finally, when he feels chilled and tired beyond belief, he starts for home, keeping his eyes trained on the little house floating in the fog. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p><br/><br/>A few days later, on his way back from fishing in the stream nearby, he sees a murder of crows circling in the air. One of them dives down amongst the weeds out of sight. Will’s stomach begins to feel the same way it did when he heard the whistling, knotted up and sick like a ball of worms is rolling around in there. He puts down his fishing supplies and slowly walks towards the gathering crows.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he reaches them, they take to the sky in a flurry of feathers. He looks ahead and sees a circular flattened patch of grass. In the center lies a great stag. For a second, Will imagines the ink colored Wendigo hunched over the deer, eating, but he shakes his head and the image disappears.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will kneels down and presses his hand against its bloody neck. Its eyes are wide and fearful. A great sadness fills his heart. He leaves, but returns soon after with a shovel, digging a deep hole in the soil to lay the stag to rest. When he’s finished, he wipes away the sweat clinging to his face, then realizes he’s only wiped more dirt and blood on his face. He feels sick and clammy as the sun sets. When he enters the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his face, he has to do a double take. His eyes go unfocused and suddenly he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, drenched in blood, facing Hannibal, feeling the rush of power that comes with the ultimate form of dominance. A rushing behind his eardrums begins and he feels himself beginning to spiral. Truly, there are only a few smears of blood across Will’s face, but he feels as though he’s drenched in it. The horrifying thought that the blood of the deer is really the blood of everyone he’s killed dances through his head. He looks down at his hands and, seeing the blood there, begins to run them under warm water. He scrubs furiously until his skin turns pink. Then he starts on his face, scrubbing and scrubbing. He swears he can still feel it coating the hairs of his beard. Hands shaking, he pulls a razor from the cabinet behind the mirror. First he trims the hairs then he lathers his face and begins to shave. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the unsteadiness of his hands, he only leaves behind one nick in the skin that he cleans and puts a piece of toilet paper over to staunch the bleeding. Will hasn’t seen his bare face in years and it makes him look even younger than he really is. He decides that he doesn’t quite have the aptitude for cutting his hair so he calls the only person he thinks may have the skill. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice knocks on the door and Will answers almost immediately. Her mouth falls open just slightly in surprise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t laugh,” Will cautions. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Or what?” Clarice responds, trying not to smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will gives her a disgruntled look as she enters his house and closes the door behind her. Clarice unthinkingly reaches towards his face, pausing only for a second before placing her hand on his cheek and rubbing her thumb across the smooth skin. She smiles and drops her hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You just look different is all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good different or bad different?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just different. I like it. I liked your beard too though. And I liked all the stages it went through before now. I mainly just like your face, honestly.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will smiles a little. “I needed to start fresh.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, you want me to cut your hair?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, please,” Will responds. What he doesn’t say is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need you to cut my hair because I can’t bear the thought of holding onto something touched by my past when I can so easily get rid of it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They go to the kitchen and Will pulls a pair of scissors out of one of the drawers. Then he goes to the bathroom and brings back two towels, one to place underneath the chair and one to place around his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, take off your shirt,” Clarice says, tugging on the folded down collar of his button-down. “It’s hard to get hair out of the fabric even after you wash it. It’ll haunt you for at </span>
  <em>
    <span>least </span>
  </em>
  <span>the next four wears and you’ll be itching like crazy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s heart skips and his palms start to sweat. He mentally berates himself for allowing his brain to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>there </span>
  </em>
  <span>so quickly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you, fifteen?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He unbuttons his shirt, looking at his fingers so she doesn’t see the color that’s risen in his cheeks. Because of this, he doesn’t see the look in Clarice’s eyes as each button pops free of its closure. She wonders what it would feel like to rip the shirt open hard enough to make the buttons bounce in all directions across the floor. Will tosses his shirt onto the table and sits up straighter, finally looking at her. Goosebumps rise on his bare skin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Clarice?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice startles and looks up into his eyes. “Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I asked if you were ready,” Will says, the ghost of a grin on his lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yes,” Clarice says, feeling flustered. “Totally ready.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure you can do this with a cast on your hand?” Will asks as she moves behind him, angling his head towards her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For the last time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Besides, it’s not like you spend time with anyone except for me these days. If you end up looking like your hair got caught in a blender I’ll be the one stuck looking at it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re so incredibly charming, Clarice. Really it’s a gift.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice starts combing through Will’s curls with her fingers. His hair is soft and shiny under the kitchen lights. Will’s eyes fall closed at her touch and the day’s worries begin to feel like another bad dream. She snips away at his hair, watching as it tumbles down over his shoulders and back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My momma used to cut my hair when I was a kid. Then when she died, we were too poor to go into town to get a real haircut so I’d cut my own,” Clarice says quietly. “I’d never even been into a beauty salon until a friend of my family took me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice remembers the fresh smell of the salon and the way Hannibal smiled at her in the mirror as they cut her hair. She was fourteen. He’d taken her for new clothes that day too. Her daddy had smiled tightly, oscillating between feelings of gratitude and shame. Later that night he had taken her aside to talk. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was very kind of him to take you to the shops, Clarice, but you can’t expect him to do that all the time. I’m your daddy and it’s my job to take care of you. I know I can’t give you much, but I’ll do my best to give you what I can. Don’t be asking the doctor to take you out to those fancy places no more. If you need anything, you come to me. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice feels the echo of shame in her heart as she remembers the conversation. She felt so embarrassed by her father and their life back then. Now, she would give almost anything to have it back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My dad used to cut my hair. I had a buzz cut until I turned eighteen and had the balls to tell him I wasn’t going to let him shave my head anymore,” Will says. “My dad wasn’t one to care much about appearances. Neither am I, really. It’s why I wear the same five shirts in a rotation.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice giggles. “I think you always look nice. You dress like you. And you’re always neat and clean.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will looks at his hands and remembers the blood on them. He closes his eyes again and curls his fingers into a fist on his thigh. Clarice circles around in front of him to finish off his hair. When she’s done, she steps back to look at him. He reaches for the round mirror on the table, but Clarice stays his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on, I want to get a good look at you and make sure it’s perfect before you see it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In reality, Clarice just wants to look at him for a minute. Her eyes rove over his scars. A bullet wound in his shoulder, a smile spread wide across his stomach, a knife wound in the chest, and a thin white line across his forehead. He is riddled with reminders of the past, the newest one being the fresh scar across his cheek. Sitting there in the kitchen chair, vulnerable and barefoot, he’s never looked more handsome. Clarice wants to always remember him this way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she’s finished using the towel to sweep the remaining hairs from his skin, she hands him the mirror to look at himself. His face turns stern and his eyebrows knit together as he looks at himself from different angles. He catches Clarice’s eyes in the reflection and smiles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you like it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. You did very well and I very much appreciate it. I was beginning to look like I belonged </span>
  <em>
    <span>outside</span>
  </em>
  <span> the house rather than inside.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clarice looks him over one more time then nods her head once as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice work</span>
  </em>
  <span> to herself. Then he douses his head in water at the sink to get rid of the loose hairs. When he’s done, he shakes the water from his curls like a dog. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he crawls into bed that night, his mind wanders to the deer buried out beneath the turned soil in his yard. He imagines maggots and worms crawling through its flesh and eye sockets as it decays over time. The breathy </span>
  <em>
    <span>huff</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the raven-stag sounds next to his ear in the darkness. As he’s falling asleep, he thinks he sees a shadow at the window, but then he blinks and it’s gone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He dreams of the raven-stag, standing in front of his house. It jerks its head, beckoning for him to follow. Barefoot, he wanders through the grass, sticks snapping underneath his feet. The air feels balmy and comfortable against his skin. He looks up at the sky and sees the moon. Seized with the urge to howl, he cries out into the night. The only sound he hears in return is a faint whistling. He blinks and he’s standing outside of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, not here</span>
  <em>
    <span>, he thinks, but the stag jerks his head again and he follows. Through the front doors and down the old, long staircases he goes. When he reaches the lowest level, he sees a light shining from beneath a door at the end of the hall. His heart beat slows down and he hears its incessant pounding as he follows the stag towards the light. He raises his hand to shield his eyes and when he lowers it, the Wendigo is standing there. It grabs his face and leans forward as if to kiss him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Boo, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it says in Hannibal’s voice, then it opens its mouth wide enough to swallow him whole. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Will shouts, scrambling upright in bed. He’s tangled in the sheets and, in his haste to get free, he falls off the bed and onto the floor. The pain that shoots through his shoulder convinces him that he’s awake. He leans his head back against the floor with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All seven dogs come trotting over to sniff him and lick the sweat from his face and neck. As his heart rate slows, he knows what he needs to do; he needs to visit the, now abandoned, Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  Maybe there he can find some kind of closure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once a large and stately building, the Baltimore State Hospital now stands derelict amongst the historical buildings of the area. When Alana left, she gave the hospital to the state and, once they realized what a job it would be finding someone to replace her, they decided to call it quits and close down. The patients were transferred to various psych wards across the country to marinate in the thick air of insanity before their release, or in some cases, their execution. Will hasn’t seen the place since his last visit to see Hannibal. In the short time it’s been abandoned it has already taken on the dangerous look of a hiding place for things that like the dark. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will heaves a great sigh, checking his pockets for his flashlight and phone before slipping through a hole cut in the chain link fence around the perimeter. It’s almost time for the rest of the city to travel home for the evening but, for Will, the work has just begun. The lock on the front door has already been broken. He pulls on a pair of gloves and gingerly pushes open the heavy door, silently hoping that no one has decided to make this place their home. When he gets inside, the door falls shut behind him with a final thud. He turns to look at it, considering bursting back through it in the other direction, but his curiosity wins out over his fear and he continues forward. Dust coats the floor and the handrails on the stairs. He swings the wide beam of his flashlight back and forth, looking for anything that may hint that he’s not alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Truthfully, Will isn’t entirely sure why he’s here. Maybe, he wants to prove that he isn’t scared of the ghost of Hannibal or maybe he hopes to find clues that show Hannibal’s decline into controlled madness. Either way, his intentions lead him further into the shadows until he enters the lowest part of the hospital, devoid of windows. The cold, damp basement feels oppressive, darkness pushing in from all sides. He can hear the steady drip of water coming from somewhere over his head. He pauses, half expecting either the stag or the Wendigo to appear in the darkness, but he is alone. Slowly, he walks to the very end of the hallway and turns left into the room that was once Hannibal Lecter’s cell. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will searches for a switch on the wall next to the doorframe and finds it. When the light comes on he feels a surge of deja vu, raising his hand while his eyes adjust to the light. While the anteroom is lit with a warm glow, the cell beyond is dark. He looks around the room, searching for the thin line in the wall that signifies a hidden door. He finds it to the left and pushes inward, but it’s stuck. He steps back and kicks at the door with the flat of his foot and it swings inward and bounces against the wall behind it. Again he switches on the light, surprised that the city is still paying the electric bill. Computers are lined up against the wall, presumably all corresponding with cameras placed at different angles along the perimeter of the room. Will ignores them and begins flicking through the manila folders inside a filing cabinet, but there’s nothing there but logs for the orderlies detailing meals and changes in behavior. A theatrically large lever is mounted on the wall, presumably the switch for the lights inside the cell. Will takes hold of the handle and pushes it up until it clicks into place and the lights come on. Then he walks through another door into the cell and stands there with his hands in his pockets. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will isn’t sure what he intended to find here, but he still feels disappointed to see the room emptied of everything. Only the table, still bolted to the floor, remains along with the accompanying chair. Everything else has been cleared from the room, either taken from Hannibal as punishment before his escape or stolen afterwards to sell for sick money online. Will sits on the edge of the table and looks out through the glass. A large crack extends across it in a diagonal line. Someone clearly attempted to break the glass before finding the hidden door in the wall. Will gets up and runs his finger along the line. He inhales sharply and pulls his hand back when it cuts him, immediately putting his finger in his mouth to suck away the blood. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing of Hannibal remains here. No drawings, no letters, no books, no aura. There is nothing here except broken glass and a torn mattress. Part of him feels immensely relieved and the other part feels the sharp sting of failure. He’d thought maybe, just maybe, there would be something to prove that his suspicions are unfounded and Hannibal really is dead. The part of him that had once been friends with the Hannibal he thought he knew mourns his loss, but the part that discovered the truth of Hannibal’s existence feels great satisfaction in the idea that Hannibal is forever gone from this world. Before leaving the room, Will shuts off all the lights, then he makes his way to the top floor, sweeping back cobwebs, and enters Alana’s office.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is evident that someone has been here other than the staff responsible for forwarding patient records. Chairs and couches are overturned and the desk is in a complete state of disarray. Dead plants hang in front of the large windows, spiders crawling over the wilted and dried leaves. Will tries flipping the light switch but strikes out this time. When he turns on his flashlight he sees that the overhead lights have all been smashed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell happened in here</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He walks over shards of glass towards the desk and sees that all of the drawers have been pulled open and the papers inside have been rifled through. Someone was looking for something.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But, what? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just as Will leans forward to pick through the papers he hears the sound of a footstep behind him. He slowly turns around, preparing for the worst, but it’s not Hannibal Lecter he sees. Instead a tall, burly black man stands in the doorway, watching him. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Will finally speaks up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, my name is Will Graham. I’m -”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know who you are,” the man says in a deep voice. “I remember you from the few visits you made over the winter.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will squints in the darkness, trying to see the man’s face. He doesn’t look much older than twenty. “You worked here. You were the orderly that handled Hannibal during room checks.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s me. My name is Barney.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He holds his hand out and Will shakes it. “I never saw you during my time here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Barney smiles. “Well, no, you wouldn’t have.  I only work with maximum security prisoners. I’m good at problem-solving,” he says, flexing his biceps. “Plus, the people that were treated here? They were still people and I always made a point to treat them like people.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will smiles in return. “Would’ve been nice if I’d had you as an orderly then. Chilton was never a big fan of treating anyone with dignity. Not that he has any himself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Last I heard, Chilton was sent down a highway lit up like a firework. That true?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s stomach twists uncomfortably. He nods. “Yeah. That’s true.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to hear it. Anyone heard from Dr. Bloom?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw her once a few months ago, but she’s gone somewhere far away from what I gathered.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was very smart of her. Not that I expected anything less. She’s a clever woman, Dr. Bloom. Hannibal always did tell me he was going to keep his promise to her,” Barney says, shaking his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will nods, thinking. “Barney, did anyone keep anything of Lecter’s? Any of his drawings or letters? Maybe some of his books?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone wanted to sell them or burn them,” Barney says with a shrug. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s heart falls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Which is why I took them before anyone else got here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s head snaps back up. “You have them?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but there’s not much to see. Just a few drawings of people, including myself, you, and Dr. Bloom. There were a few I didn’t recognize. That and some sketches of buildings in Europe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything weird though? Different?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come to think of it, there is one sketch that was different from the others. It’s of some old house out in the boonies. Address is on the back, but when I looked it up the house had been empty for almost 10 years. Real nasty murder took place there. The kid survived though.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The kid?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. There was a kid there when the murder happened. They never did catch the killer. The kid’s name was kept out of the press though, miraculously,” Barney explains. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>The cogs in Will’s mind start turning. </span><em><span>What if Hannibal was the killer and this house is of importance to him?</span></em> <em><span>Is it important enough that he’d hide out there if he survived the fall? </span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Barney, do you think I could take a look at that drawing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. Come by tomorrow, 2 o’clock. I’ve got a residency up the street at a hospital, but I take my lunch around then. I can bring it to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, deal. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure thing.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d you know I was in here?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Saw the beam of your flashlight from the street on my way home. Thought maybe it was Sammie, one of the patients that was transferred when this place shut down. He keeps escaping from where they’ve got him now. He comes back here because it’s familiar to him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will cannot imagine wanting to be in this place for any amount of time let alone by choice. It saddens him to think of Sammie, so lost in the world that this place is the only one he has to call home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks again, Barney,” Will says, walking out the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before he makes it to the stairwell, Barney calls out to him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Will!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will turns around and looks at the shadow of Barney in the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You think he’s alive don’t you? You think Dr. Lecter survived the fall like you did.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Will says truthfully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’re you going to do?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you do, if you were me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Barney pauses and seriously considers before answering. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think if I were the right kind of crazy, I’d kill him,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will shrugs his shoulder and nods, then he walks down the stairs and out of sight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <span>The drive home feels especially long, the road stretching far out into the darkness. Will remembers making this drive many times on his way back home from his appointments with Hannibal. As he drives, his mind wanders to a time when he thought Hannibal was his greatest friend.</span>
  <em>
    <span> How desperately we all wish to feel seen, especially by someone we admire. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hannibal had seemed like a wise mentor that finally understood and appreciated the strange workings of Will’s mind without wanting to use it for his own gain. How wrong Will had been. He still remembers standing in Garett Jacob Hobbes’ kitchen, the room where his life had changed forever. The scales had fallen from his eyes and he finally saw Hannibal as he truly was. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hannibal, the master manipulator, devourer of souls. Will had wanted so badly to be wrong and to trust his friend that he had ignored all the warning signs his body gave him. Dreams of the stag from Hannibal’s office haunted him and still he refused to see the truth. In a way, the stag had been his protector, a manifestation of his intuition trying to guide him to the truth. In his mind there were two Hannibals: the doctor and the wendigo. It had been hard to reconcile the two until that night on the cliff. Seeing Hannibal maim and kill right in front of him, alongside him, had finally merged the two Hannibals in his mind. The wendigo and his friend were one and the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It used to scare him, the feeling of power he felt when he took a life, but in the moment when his used-up body pulled Hannibal over the cliff he felt no fear, only a deep satisfaction and peace. He can no longer escape the truth of himself. Will has a darkness inside him and sometimes he puts that darkness to use and he likes it. Killing Dolarhyde after everything he had put Will through, after endangering Molly and Walter, had felt good. Killing the enemy alongside another gave Will a high that he had never experienced - the elation, the power, the satisfaction...it was unlike anything he’d ever felt. Will imagined it was akin to the emotions soldiers felt when fighting side by side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Afterwards, his head felt so incredibly clear. He could see everything in sharp focus. He knew he may never feel that way again and it scared him to think that he may begin to seek it. He also knew that while Hannibal lived, he would never truly find himself amongst the murky waters of his consciousness. Will would always be consumed with both the desire to separate from Hannibal entirely and the desire to understand the man’s descent into violence. When Will pulled Hannibal off the cliff with him, his intention had been to make all of it stop. No more tug-of-war, no more chases, no more manipulations, no more wondering what kind of crazy he is anymore. He decided, while resting his weary head against Hannibal, that it was time to put a true end to things. Hannibal’s death would bring an end to his long reign of terror. Will’s death would finally bring him the peace he’d never been able to find in life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s plan didn’t work and he had somehow survived against all odds. If his gut instincts are correct, as they often are, Hannibal has survived too. Once again, he has been thrust into the fire, but this time, he intends to burn entirely alone. No one he loves will be singed this time. Not Jack, not Alana, not Molly and Walter...and not Clarice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will sets out for answers, but he may not like what he finds. Clarice grapples with her growing guilt in not telling Will about her connection to Hannibal.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Will meets with Barney at 2 o’clock sharp the next day, waiting outside the chain link fence around Baltimore state hospital. Barney arrives a few minutes late with two coffees in hand and passes one to Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Will says, surprised at the gesture. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t thank me yet. It’s coffee from the hospital. I’ve got that mid-day drag if you know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will gives a little laugh in return, taking a sip of the coffee. He swiftly lets it drop from his mouth back into the cup. It tastes stale and extra bitter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” Barney says, tipping his back for a long drink. “God only knows how long it’s been sitting out or how many times it's been reheated.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the thought that counts,” Will replies, throwing his cup into the nearby trash can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Barney pulls a rolled up sheet of paper from the bag slung over his shoulder and hands it to Will. Will waits a breath before taking it in his hands, as if he’s afraid of it, but it’s just a piece of paper. Nothing of Hannibal remains except his careful sketching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I sprayed some hairspray on it to stop it from smudging. It’s charcoal, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will nods in appreciation. “Why’d you keep his drawings if you don’t mind my asking?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Barney shrugs. “Tossing them or burning them seemed like a waste of good art. I thought maybe I’d take them up to a museum one day. They might end up being worth something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be sure to get this one back to you as soon as I can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, man. I’ve got to get back to work. Just let me know when you’re done with it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will watches Barney jog back the way he came. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a slender man crossing the street, his gait oddly familiar. He’s wearing a nice suit and a hat pulled low in the front. Will watches him cross and disappear into the crowd, searching for him amongst the many faces, but the man is nowhere to be seen. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Will goes to the nearest library to look at the drawing. It’s almost entirely empty, most people either at work or school. He chooses a secluded table in the back corner and unrolls the drawing until it lies flat. Then he lays two books at the top and the bottom and steps back. The drawing shows a small two-story house on top of a hill. A little porch runs around the entirety of the house. Two rocking chairs peek out from above and behind the posts in the railing with a table situated between them. The upstairs window is centered over the porch with a little awning coming to a point above it. You can tell from the shading and linework in portions that the house is old and falling into disrepair. There are dead plants hanging from the porch and the steps are slightly crooked, sinking into the ground. Snow covers the grass, with little footprints leading to the steps. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will looks at it carefully. It looks like a typical American home, but the wrap-around porch suggests that it sits in the south. He moves the books and flips it over. Written diagonally in a fancy script is an address in West Virginia, confirming Will’s suspicions. Beneath the address is a small drawing of a young girl with the caption, </span>
  <em>
    <span>C age 17</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Something about the girl’s face feels very familiar to him. He runs his finger over it and the charcoal smudges a little, blurring her features. He sits down and rubs his hands over his face. Then he pulls out his laptop and types in the address. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Barney told him, the house was listed as being unoccupied for just over ten years. A news article appears discussing the brutal murder of the owner of the home. Neither the gender, the age nor the name of the man’s offspring are listed. As Will’s eyes scan the page his face grows darker. This murder was clearly one of the earliest ones during Hannibal’s stint as ”The Chesapeake Ripper.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why would Hannibal draw one of the homes of his victims? How is this particular murder important to him?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Next, Will tries to search more information on the surviving child, but his results only come up with more articles about the murder, devoid of information of the survivor. He looks again at the sketch of the young girl. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This has to be the surviving child, right? But, again, why would Hannibal be drawing the house and the girl? And since when does he spare teenagers? He didn’t spare Abigail…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will sits back and closes his eyes, trying to ward off images of Abigail’s body bleeding out next to him on the floor. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though it’s a little out of his way, Will decides to stop by Clarice’s house on his way home.  He knows the address, but he’s never been there. It somehow feels like crossing an invisible line. It’s hard for people to hide their true selves at home; bits and pieces of who they are stand out amongst the clutter. The prospect of seeing Clarice through an unfiltered lens both excites and frightens him. On his way over he picks up a bottle of wine, momentarily agonizing over white or red before deciding that it doesn’t really matter. When he knocks on her door, he hears her scrape back the peephole cover.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who is it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Special delivery.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry sir, but my husband is out and he told me not to let strangers in,” Clarice says, adopting a more pronounced West Virginian accent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will grins, placing his hand on the door where he knows she’s leaning. He can almost feel the energy of her bleeding through the wood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me in ma’am and I’ll make sure we don’t stay strangers for long.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will Graham!” Clarice proclaims, swinging open the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will laughs. “Well, you opened the door didn’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice scrunches her nose up at him. “Come on in.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will steps past her into a warm sitting room. He can’t help but smile a little looking around, feeling like he’s being given a special gift, a glimpse of her world. Saint ambles up and sniffs at his pockets until he digs around and finds a dog treat for him. He’s rewarded with a lick on the cheek. The room is awash in warm light coming from the fairy lights strung up around the bookshelves against the far wall. A soft blanket lays on the couch, where Clarice had been curled under it only moments before. The kitchenette just off to the side is small, but serves its purpose. Photos hang on the fridge, depicting the few friends and family she has. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice’s auburn hair is wet and hanging down her back. She wears an FBI t-shirt and some old shorts with a hole in the leg. She runs her fingers over it self consciously. Will’s never seen her like this, but he likes it very much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to drop by like this. If you’re busy I can -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not busy. Not at all. I’m happy to see you. What’re you doing near Quantico?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice takes the wine bottle from his hand and goes to the kitchen to fill two glasses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I actually had an errand to run in Baltimore earlier today, but I felt like it would be a waste if I didn’t stop by your place on the way home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you heading back tonight?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I’d like to, but I have to see someone at the FBI tomorrow and call in a favor. I figured I’d just get a hotel room close by.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Stay here, if you like,” Clarice says, bringing him his wine. Her stomach twists at this news. </span><em><span>Does he know something?</span></em> <em><span>Has Hannibal reached out to him?</span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can. If you’re okay with it, so am I. There’s no point in you spending money on a hotel room when I have a perfectly comfortable couch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I tend to get pretty bad nightmares. I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Will says, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s no trouble. Please stay,” Clarice responds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will walks towards the window overlooking the street with his drink in hand. Something about the prospect of being in a vulnerable state so close to her makes him nervous, but it’s also comforting to know she’s with him. He looks out the window, eyes scanning the street. He half expects to see Hannibal staring up at him, but the street is empty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, fine, but if you snore I’m leaving.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice shakes her head and follows his gaze. “So, what are you doing at the FBI tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just want to pay a visit to Price. Maybe stop in and see Zeller. I’m hoping to pick some things up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and looks up at her, his forehead wrinkling. Clarice always has a hard time focusing when he looks at her that way. There’s no way for her to pry further without arousing his suspicions and she’s not quite ready to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> conversation yet. They settle down on the couch, sitting close but not quite touching. Will watches as she takes a sip of wine and licks her lips. Clarice catches him and grins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are we ever going to talk about what happened the night you were mugged?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice is caught off guard by the question and her ears and cheeks begin to burn. “What about it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, for starters, you kissed me like it was your last night on earth and then practically sprinted away from my house, like I was a leper. Then, not five hours later, I find you in the ER looking like you decided to start boxing as a hobby.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice’s neck and chest are burning now too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus, I probably look like an overripe tomato left out in the sun. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“What’s the question exactly?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will starts to smile a little, recognizing her attempts to skirt the question. “Why did you kiss me that night, Clarice?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice sighs deeply and decides to tell him as much of the truth as she can. “I kissed you because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to since I met you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will takes in her response, his stomach feeling like a boat cresting a wave on the sea in a storm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Is that surprising?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will shrugs and looks awkwardly away from her at a ring of condensation on the coffee table. “Well, I just...I mean, I’m old and scarred and completely fucked up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not completely,” Clarice says, turning to look at him face-on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will looks up at her and when he sees her smile, he finds himself smiling too. Clarice is entirely too good for him. She’s kind and funny and the most badass woman he’s met since Beverly Katz. It’s why he has to do what he’s about to do, though it pains him greatly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should I not have kissed you? We can keep on pretending that nothing happened,” Clarice says gently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no no,” Will rushes to clarify. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> glad that you kissed me. I haven’t felt like that in years and I’m glad it was you, specifically, that I was kissing. But, I feel obligated to warn you, Clarice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About what?” Clarice asks, an invisible fist gripping her heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>messed up,” Will says. “I’m not the most stable person and I’ve been told that I’m not good for people when I’m like this. I don’t know if I’ll ever be entirely stable after everything I’ve seen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please let me finish. You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> me...and you deserve to before you make any decisions about me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told you a long time ago that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clarice,” Will starts, struggling with the words. “I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> people. Not one, but three. I’ve inadvertently caused even more deaths.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watches Clarice carefully, but she hides her emotions well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Before everything happened, before I met Hannibal, I was terrified of pulling the trigger on a man who ran at me and stabbed me. I was driven by great amounts of fear and in a lot of ways, I still am. I’m afraid of hurting someone or getting someone hurt purely because of their association with me. I often have dark thoughts that I can’t shake. You know, I drove all the way to D.C. and drove around the block you were mugged on for almost an hour the other night?  I don’t know what I would have done if I’d seen someone that I thought could have been the one to hurt you. Truthfully, I probably would have hurt them. I failed my ex-wife and her son. I failed the FBI. I lost myself in the utter pandemonium that comes with being the obsessive project of a serial killer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will, none of those things make you a bad person. You’re the very definition of neutral-good. You’ve done things to protect people that some others find disturbing. I’m made of stronger stuff than that,” Clarice says, leaning towards him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t place her hands on him and for once he appreciates the lack of physical contact. When he gets overwhelmed like this, it’s hard not to completely withdraw into himself. Every part of him feels rubbed raw. Even the clothes he’s wearing seem too abrasive and close against his skin. He rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs and continues. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve done some awful things and some of them I enjoyed. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> the rush of power and dominance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s normal to feel a primal surge of power in a moment of intense danger.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I beat a man to death with my bare hands,” Will admits, letting his scarred hands hang between his knees. He stares down at them, feeling him sick to his stomach. “I couldn’t stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Randall Tier?” Clarice asks. Will nods his head. “From what I heard, Randall Tier was trying to kill you and your dogs. You killed him in self defense. In fact, all of the people you’ve killed have been killed in self defense. You still feel the guilt though and I don’t know if that will ever go away, but you don’t have to keep punishing yourself for saving your own life. Haven’t you ever considered that there are people who are glad that you're not the one who died?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will continues to stare at his hands, seemingly lost in the past. Clarice gets up from her place on the couch and kneels down on the floor in front of him. When he doesn’t shy away, she takes his hands in hers. “These hands have saved far more lives than they’ve taken. Almost everyone has violent urges at some point, especially when it comes to protecting what they love. What matters is that you don’t act on those urges without any thought. You recognize them for what they are, but you don’t let them control you. There is a difference between guiltless murder and justified killing, as cold as that may seem. Besides, when you aren’t around Hannibal, do you feel the overwhelming urge to leave everything behind and start killing for fun? Do you feel like you’re hiding murderous intent during your day to day life?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Will answers truthfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re okay in my book, Will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will looks up at her and searches her face for signs of dishonesty, but there is nothing to see there but compassion. Her eyes are filled with tears she tries hard to hold back for Will’s sake. It’s painful for her to see him this way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are not a murderer, no matter what Hannibal told you. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you be sure?” Will asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Trust me,” Clarice says quietly, thinking of her own entanglement with Hannibal. “I know a murderer when I see one. You are capable of doing what is necessary because of your love and understanding of others. You don’t just empathize with killers, Will. You empathize with victims. You sacrificed your own well being to save lives. You’re the most selfless and compassionate person I’ve ever met.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I can’t ever get clean,” Will murmurs, his eyes glistening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” Clarice says, quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She keeps hold of his hands and leads him to the kitchen sink. He watches as she adjusts the temperature of the water. A stream of warm water falls from the faucet and Clarice places Will’s hands beneath it. She rubs her thumbs in circles over his palms and fingers. Will keeps his eyes on her face as she works. When she finishes she dries his hands with a towel and presses her lips to his knuckles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Better?” She asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will has never felt so supported and loved by another person. The suddenness of the feeling is almost startling. That another can see the darkest parts of him and still treat him with kindness and acts of love, warms something at the very heart of him. It’s a piece of him that hasn’t felt touched in so very long. Perhaps since he was a child, even. Will has always felt like an outsider, uncomfortable in his own skin, but Clarice makes him feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span> again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Words fail him, unable to encompass the feeling of gratitude and love swelling up in his chest. So instead, he does the only thing that seems to make sense and presses his lips to hers. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>That night as Will falls asleep on the little gray couch in Clarice’s living room he thinks not of Hannibal or death and destruction. Instead, he thinks of the blue ocean and white capped waves of the sea, not as instruments of destruction, but as symbols of the innocence and happiness of his earliest years in Louisiana. He thinks of the softness of Clarice's hands and the feeling of her lips on his and falls asleep more easily than he has in a very long time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarice lies awake only a few feet away in her bed, her fingers pressed to her lips. She wonders if she should have told him about her connection to Hannibal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should have, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should have been as honest with him as he was with me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The strength and willingness to be vulnerable that Will displayed does not go unappreciated. Will shared a piece of himself with Clarice that he otherwise tries to bury. A tear slides down Clarice’s cheek and onto her pillow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She squeezes her eyes shut, at war with herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell him and risk his life or not tell him and risk everything else? <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Clarice is still asleep when Will dresses to leave her apartment. He gently knocks on her bedroom door but she doesn’t answer. For a moment, he considers just leaving a note, but the urge to get a glimpse of her before leaving is too strong and he cracks open the door to check on her. </p><p>
  <span>Clarice snores lightly, her hair falling over her shoulder. One of her arms is folded up underneath her pillow and the other clutches the comforter. She’s dreaming and Will can feel the anxious nature of her dream from across the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He quietly moves across the room and leans down to kiss her cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. At his touch, her breathing deepens and her body relaxes. He pulls the blankets up over her shoulder then leaves a hastily scribbled note in her notebook by the bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Going to see Price at the FBI. I’ll see you soon. Thank you. For everything. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Love, Will</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s barely nine in the morning when Will enters the lab where Price is working on taking the fingerprints of a recently discovered body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Jimmy,” Will says, peeking his head around the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll be...come on in, Will.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s eyes drift to the body on the metal table in front of Price. It’s a young woman, no older than eighteen, with skin missing on her back in two diamond patterns. Unconsciously Will’s mind starts to analyze her…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This murder was an act of necessity for the killer, likely a white male in his mid 30s to 40s. He views his victims as objects rather than people. There is no anger present, only an intense need to possess parts of - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will startles, his head suddenly aching. “Sorry, what?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Price covers the body with a sheet. “I asked if you’d seen the news about the recent murders?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will shakes his head. “No, I’ve been trying not to watch the news too much.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Prices nods his head, seeming to understand. “There’s been a series of murders happening across a few states. This here’s the third body to be found, but they think maybe she was the first taken. Police department down where she’s from has taken to calling the guy Buffalo Bill...tacky, if you ask me, which no one ever does…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s headache spikes in intensity. “I need to ask a favor, Jimmy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Will...I didn’t think -“ Price starts, noticing the look of distress on Will’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. I’m okay. Do you think you could pull some files for me on a murder from about ten years ago? It’s probably listed as still being an open case.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, Will…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please? It’s just personal curiosity. And there’s no need to mention it to Jack.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been hearing that a lot recently,” Price mumbles, raising his eyebrows and squinting at Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got an address and last name, but no other information on the victim except what was in the press. Can you find me what I need? If it’s too hard for you I can go and talk to Zeller…” Will says, appealing to Price’s ego. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no! I can do it just fine. No need to call Zeller in.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Price takes the written address from Will and moves to his computer, typing it in. Within a few minutes, Price finds what he’s looking for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jack Summers, forty-eight years old, killed ten years ago.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds right.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get the file for you, but it had better come back in one piece,” Jimmy says, pointing his finger at Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got it,” Will responds, trying for a smile that he’s sure only makes him look guilty of something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once the file is in his hands he thanks Price and swiftly makes his way to his car before anyone finds out he’s been there. Once inside, he puts the file in the passenger seat, types the address into his navigator, and sets off for West Virginia. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span><br/>
Will stops for dinner once he arrives in the little town in West Virginia and settles in to wait until nightfall. Once the sky has darkened and the stars are shining, he finishes the final leg of his journey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The house sits empty and alone off the side of the road. Will parks his car at the end of the driveway and walks the rest of the way until he’s standing close enough to smell the decaying wood and damp soil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It looks worse now than it did in the drawing, the roof beginning to collapse in places. His palms begin to sweat and he scratches the back of his neck before flipping on his flashlight. The front and back doors are locked, but Will finds a window with a piece of plywood haphazardly stapled against it. He pulls at it with all his strength until it breaks free, causing him to stumble backwards a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will throws the file through first then climbs in afterwards, the light between his teeth. Once inside, he takes a moment to get his bearings, swinging the flashlight around to get a good look at the house. The room is devoid of any furniture or belongings. A closet in the front hall stands open, cobwebs hanging from the doorframe. Dust coats every surface including the floor. Will looks at the ceiling and finds it intact. Once satisfied that the place isn’t going to collapse around him, he opens the file and begins to read. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he’s read the entire police report and looked over the evidence logs he takes a deep breath to steady himself. The photos are even harder to look at. It’s been months since Will has allowed himself to do this and the thought of stepping inside the mind of both the killer and the victim scares him. He thinks of Clarice’s words of comfort and the feeling of her hands on his and takes another deep breath. Then he lets his eyes fall closed and focuses on allowing himself to recreate the scene and absorb the residual energy in the room. His heartbeat sounds in his ears, a steady rhythm to hold on to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will opens his eyes to the grisly scene of ten years ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am familiar, maybe even well known, to the family. They invite me into the house without a struggle. Dinner takes place, peacefully in the dining room. I listen to the mundane conversation, my mind focused solely on the thrill of what comes next. I time it out and then, as if a switch has flipped, I turn to Jack Summers and stab him in the side of the neck. The daughter screams as blood spatters her face and chest. She throws herself back from the table against the wall. I am unaffected by her horror. I pull the steak knife from the man’s neck and more blood begins to spurt from the wound to the beat of his heart. I can’t resist, so I lick the blood from my lips, the taste coppery and bitter. Then I kick the man onto the floor as unceremoniously as a butcher kicking a dead pig off the back of a slaughter truck. As I lean over to drag the body into the living room, the daughter runs to the front hall and throws herself into the closet, her heavy breaths sounding out from within. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She quiets as I work. I want to turn on music but the family is too poor and tasteless to have what I want so I work in silence. I look for everyday objects to insert into Jack’s flesh with as much force as I can muster. Rather than tire, my body only begins to feel more energized with each act of desecration. When I am satisfied I admire my work from a chair across the room. I come down from my high and remember the daughter in the closet. I go to her and drag her from the closet - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will opens his eyes, confused and breathless. A thin sheen of sweat coats his skin. He feels nauseated and exhausted. The girl wasn’t dragged from the closet. The report says she walked from it. Will goes to the closet and sits inside it, shutting the door. It’s pitch black but for the thin line of moonlight visible beneath the door. Will leans his head back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He feels himself beginning to descend into a state of mind that frightens and sickens him. Again, he thinks of Clarice, the freckle above her lip, the white in her hair, the soft blue of her eyes...His heart rate slows and he wipes the sweat away from his brow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he lets himself settle into the mind of the daughter. He allows her fear to fill him up until suddenly an unbidden image of his mother fills his mind and he has to stop and refocus. There is a familiar sadness in the air that comes with the loss of a parent. Will places his hands against the walls and wishes he could give the girl her father back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flips his flashlight on and opens the file to the page on the young miss Summers. A photo is paper clipped to the front page of the report. It’s clear that this is indeed the same girl that Hannibal sketched on the back of the drawing of the house. It takes him a moment to pinpoint why the girl looks so familiar. He scans her face and when he reaches the eyes again, a realization begins. He lifts the photo to read the name of the daughter, scribbled across the back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Clarice Summers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s heart drops to somewhere below his navel. He clambers out of the closet and to the window, climbing through so quickly he almost falls. He’s halfway across the yard when he drops to his knees and vomits. He sits back and covers his face with his hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nonononono, it isn’t her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks again at the photo, the soft blue eyes staring back out at him. The white is missing from her hair but he knows it’s her and he finally understands how it got there. An idea begins to form in his head…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She knows Hannibal. She was special to him. Clarice, his Clarice, saw Hannibal kill her father. Hannibal spared her. She walked from the closet. She wasn’t dragged. Hannibal spared her… </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anger fills him like a poison and he can’t tell who he’s angrier with, Hannibal for being tied to the only person he’s ever felt truly close to or Clarice for lying to him about it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark in the moonlight. Then he stumbles down the hill, heart sickened with enlightenment. </span>
</p><p> </p>
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